


Champions

by osunism



Series: Get Us There [17]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, F/F, F/M, Grand Tourney, Multi, Murder Mystery, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Rivalry, Starkhaven
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-14 01:31:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7146665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osunism/pseuds/osunism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Grand Tourney is being held in Starkhaven, and former members of the Inquisition make their way there to watch Aja Trevelyan--former warrior of the Inquisition, sometime pirate, and love of Josephine Montilyet's life--participate. But even with their adventuring days behind them, trouble finds them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a silly murder mystery idea. Things got a little serious and I decided to keep the party going.

Rylen watches as Ariadne arms herself. She is cool and methodical in the placing of every blade, and it is a perpetual testament of her trust that he is allowed to witness this at all. Still, holding the vellum invitation in his hand, he wonders why she indulges these creature comforts–human interaction–at all.

“Oh come on, Ari,” Rylen pleads, “no one knows what you look like. Would it kill you to show your face and cut loose just once?”

“Yes.” Ariadne replies flatly, adjusting the side-draw sheath at the small of her back, and sliding home a short dagger with a wickedly serrated edge. Rylen blinks several times as it appears the sheath seems to meld with the black-on-black suede she wears. Her lines are clean and smooth, and not a glimmer of steel betrays how dangerous she is.

He’ll never get used to this.

“You don’t have to sit with me if you’re worried someone might see us together.” Rylen says, a nasty bite in his tone. Ariadne’s hands still over the bandolier of tonics and grenades laid out on the bed. She turns slowly, soundlessly, and fixes him with her unnervingly clear gaze. One would think, with eyes like hers, her emotions would manifest as ink on a blank page. But she is an unreadable and unknowable as clouds before a storm. Rylen regrets his words.

“It is not our being seen together that deters me from such high profile events, Rylen.” She tells him and Rylen feels his temper rise, his skin hot all over from it. He is flushed red along his chest and shoulders. Ariadne is as obdurate as a mountain in the face of his anger.

“Then what is it?” He demands, “No one there you’re contracted to kill so therefore it’s not worth going?”

He barely finishes breathing out the words when Ariadne moves. She is a snake strike given human form, closing the distance between them with a speed and accuracy that puts Rylen in the mind of _prey_. But there is no steel between them, no cold kiss of a blade to emphasize that she is the only real threat in the room.

“The last time I let myself be seen, I paid dearly for it.” Ariadne tells him, “If it is all the same to you, I would rather not be known. They call me _Ghost_ for a reason, Rylen. You knew what I was—what I am. Would you have me jeopardize it so that you can paw at me in public?”

Rylen sees a flash of something in her eyes. Something raw and wild, a wound unhealed. Is it pride or something deeper than that? He will never know. But he has stung her somehow, and he regrets it.

“Didn’t mean to imply that, lass.” He says softly, keeping her gaze with his own. “I know what you’ve lost for the sake of…I know. I just thought it would be something you would want to do. It’s a chance for you to reunite with your sisters, catch up on the gossip.”

_Be a Maker bedamned human being._

Ariadne blinks, and Rylen feels the tension uncoil within her, feels the threat level she has raised lower as she relaxes and ruminates on his words.

“You may be right,” she says slowly, her gaze shifting, avoiding his own, trying to focus, “and I…I suppose my face would be lost in a sea of others during this event.”

Rylen smiles. He’s making progress.

“We will go to the Grand Tourney,” Ariadne says, sliding her bandolier across her torso, “but it is your treat.” Rylen watches as she vanishes from sight before his eyes, a blur in the room, and then out of the window, against the setting sun.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way, Ghost.” He says with a laugh, knowing she is gone, hunting some poor soul whose name was unfortunate enough to cross her desk.

* * *

“Aja I still don’t understand why _you_ have to enter the Tourney,” Bann Trevelyan says crossly, “it’s unladylike. Damn near uncivilized for a woman of your stature.”

Aja laughs and pounds her fist on the table.

“Don’t give me that shit, father,” she cackles, “you started training Hadiza and I to be templars when we were barely out of our soil-clothes. If I want to knock a few heads in the Grand Tourney, it is my Maker-given right to do so, as a Marcher and a Trevelyan.”

Edward cannot help it. He smiles. He is proud of her in that, at least. Whatever her faults—and there are many, Maker preserve him—she is proud of who she is, at least. He turns his gaze to the woman next to Aja, the Lady Montilyet.

“And you?” He asks her, “You have agreed to this?”

Josephine laughs. “My lord Trevelyan your daughter dueled an Orlesian noble for the right to court me. Of course I agreed.”

Bann Trevelyan rolls his eyes and concedes that he will never win on the subject. He watches Aja a moment, watches the way her fingertips linger on Josephine’s hand when she passes  the small saucer of sugar cubes, or the small saucer of butter. He watches Josephine’s cheeks flush like wine when Aja tosses a grin her way. They speak without words, at times recalling a memory that makes them both laugh, or smile in quiet contentment.

Whether he approves or no, Bann Trevelyan can no more deny that his daughter is besotted than he can deny his other daughter married the most wanted man in Thedas.

He still cannot believe that.

Josephine leans in, dabs Aja’s mouth gently with a napkin.

“It’s good, right?” Aja asks around a mouthful of raspberries. Josephine purses her lips.

“Very. Although nothing quite beats an Antivan breakfast.” Josephine sighs, remembering something. Aja grins wickedly.

“No,” she says with a sly smirk, “not quite, eh?”

Josephine’s face goes red and Bann Trevelyan excuses himself promptly.

* * *

The sheets slide against her skin, deliciously cool and smooth. She reaches above her head, curling her fingers around one of the bars of the headboard frame, which knocks insistently against the wall, a metronome to the pace of the man tangled up between her legs.

“Yes…” Hadiza breathes, tossing her head, eyes shut as if ecstasy is rushing through the pipes of her veins. “Oh **_yes_** …there… _there_ …Maker….I’m going to…!” She squeezes her thighs, and Samson freezes in surprise at the onset of her climax. He keeps going, knowing she’ll want one more. She’s never satisfied with just one.

That’s when the banging on their front door pierces the haze of their focus.

“Princess…the door…” Samson says to her, but Hadiza is stubborn, crossing her ankles and pulling him in. It feels damn good–Maker, her cunt must be the finest thing he’s ever felt–but the pounding on the door grows louder and more frequent.

“For fuck’s sake…!” Hadiza cries out, half a moan and half shout of frustration. Samson stills himself, braced on his arms, panting.

“I’ll get it.” He tells her, smiling through the sweat-slick strands of his hair. Hadiza makes a noise that says she intends to kill whoever is at the door, and releases him.

Samson pulls on his trousers and heads toward the door.

“Whoever you are, you’d better have a damn good reason for interrupting.” He mutters, snatching open the door and finding a courier, looking as jumpy and spooked as a fennec in sight of a wolf.

“What?” Samson snaps, making the courier jump again.

“I’m…I’m here to deliver a letter for Her Worship. She…she lives here, I was told.” The courier tries to focus on anything but the sweat-slick warrior blocking the doorway.

“Well.” Samson says, “Hand it over. I’ll get it to her.” The courier fumbles around in his pack, retrieves the letter, a heavy vellum with the embossed symbol of House Trevelyan. Samson hears Hadiza moving about in the bedroom, and she comes into the hallway, wearing only the sheet taken from their bed.

“Who is that?” She demands and the courier stares, awestruck.

“Hey!” Samson snaps, “Keep your eyes in your fuckin’ head. You’ve delivered your message, now get out of here.”

The courier does not need to be told twice. Samson shuts the door, coming toward Hadiza and brandishing the letter.

“Could be from your father or sister, you never know.” He tells her as she frowns at the embossed emblem. She opens the letter, skims the words, and begins to laugh.

“Good news?” Samson asks, following her back into the bedroom.

“It’s Tourney season,” Hadiza explains, “and apparently Aja is competing this year.”

Samson chuckles.

“Is that even legal? She’ll kill everyone she comes up against. Girl’s a maniac.”

Hadiza rolls her eyes. “She’s competed before, but never won. I think she has a chance this year. But she’s guaranteed us the best seats in the arena.”

Samson watches as she heads to her desk, dropping the sheet on the floor along the way. He tilts his head, indulges himself in a glimpse of her from behind as she rummages around for something in the drawers.

“Princess,” he says and she looks up at him briefly, “come here. I think we’ve got unfinished business. Then we can head to Ostwick.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

“I do not understand the point of this,” Ariadne says crossly, “why fight if you do not intend to kill your opponent?”

Rylen rolls his eyes. “It’s not about killing your opponent, lass. Maker, what did they teach you?”

Ariadne stares at him, saying nothing. He laughs.

“Right. I forgot.” He says dryly and she frowns. “You’ve never been to the Grand Tourney?” Ariadne hesitates, looks down between her mount’s ears.

“No.” She says, “Not in the…traditional sense.” She chews the inside of her lip and says nothing more. Rylen sighs.

“Well, you may not be contracted to kill anyone, but…well, you’ll enjoy this, trust me. It’s not just fighting. There will be feats of strength, drinking, food, dancing…”

Ariadne scoffs. “Starkhaven food is so harsh on the tongue, Rylen.”

Rylen grins. “Well, Ari. You may think that, but you seem to have grown accustomed to the taste of Starkhaven. Rather fond of it, if I remember correctly.”

Her cheeks burn, a blossom beneath her dusky skin. Rylen silently congratulates himself on the victory.

* * *

“Are you sure this is it?” Aja asks, “It looks rather…lavish.”

Josephine is ordering the servants to pack their belongings into the tent. Trunks filled with clothing, valuables, and other things Josephine claims she needs file into the tent which is spacious and well-stocked. Aja finds herself put in mind of Antiva and Rivain at the same time, seeing the echoes of both within. Hanging silks to aid in the breeze, lamps carved into lattice shapes hang from ropes, and cushions and plush carpets line the ground. She looks for her weapon and armor stand, and finding it, deems the place livable, at least.

“I spared no expense for this, Aja,” Josephine says, pausing to quickly examine her reflection in the polished gleam of Aja’s pauldron. “But if you’d rather we sleep amidst the rabble…”

Aja shrugs. “You know I’d lay my head down anywhere, lovely. What of the others? Have they arrived?” She watches as Josephine orchestrates the arrangement of her things. She has packed light, considering her usual travel arrangements, and all of her clothing is cut for the latest designs popular in Antiva and Orlais alike. No doubt she will try to force Aja into a gown for a ball before the event is over.

Aja, for her part, has packed only weapons, armor, repair kits, and some choice clothing for formal events and casual wear. Since being reinstated by her father (for the fourth time it feels like), Aja has taken to the title of _Lord Trevelyan_  very well, dressing the part, but still maintaining that degree of ‘Rivaini savagery’ that riles up the Bann so much.

She counts it as a victory. She refuses to bend.

“Rylen and Ariadne are already here,” Josephine tells her, “and Samson and Hadiza…ah well, they’ll get here when they get here. You know them. I’m sure they’ll be here before the Tourney’s commencement.”

Aja sighs. Josephine sounds optimistic, but the truth is: no one knows. Hadiza and Samson are bounty hunters–noble mercenaries, really. Since she disbanded the Inquisition, she’s made herself harder to track down, even amidst those whom she considers close. Aja supposes her sister has earned that much. She shrugs off the annoyance and blinks in the harsh sun as she emerges from the tent.

“Well then, we’d better let the Prince know we’re here, eh?”

“Already done, love.” Josephine says smugly, “Have you forgotten who I am? Tsk.”

Aja smiles. “Always on top of things, huh?” Josephine stands on her toes, kissing the corner of Aja’s scarred mouth, then her lips.

“Well.” She whispers, “Not always.” Aja shoots her an arch look.

“You need but ask, my lady.” She says suggestively, “I am nothing if not generous.”

Josephine blushes. “I know. Perhaps tonight, when we’ve settled in?”

Aja’s hand grips her waist, comes up, passing over her breast deliberately, making Josephine’s lips part on a soundless gasp of surprise.

“Why not now?” Aja asks quietly. Josephine swallows visibly.

“I…” She’s on fire, now. There’s something magnetic about Aja, and the easy curve of her small, that heavy well of gravity in her eyes…Josephine wants nothing more than to retreat to the tent, banish their entourage, and spend the rest of the afternoon rolling in the cushions and feather-stuffed blankets.

Maker knows she’s been craving it for the last few weeks.

“We must present ourselves to the Prince, first.” Josephine says, but the firmness in her voice has a tremor in it. Aja pretends she does not know, and gives her a toothy grin, the gold-capped canines glinting in the sun.

“Very well, my lady. Shall we?” She offers her arm, the perfect gentleman. Josephine loops her arm in hers, her body thrumming from head to toe with desire as they make their way into the city proper.

* * *

“I knew we shouldn’t have listened to that prick.” Samson grumbles. “I should turn back and go and shove these useless directions right up his smug little arsehole.”

Hadiza is calmer, reading her map and frowning.

“Relax, love. We’re just a bit lost is all. Aside, Starkhaven is only one day away. Once we get to the next village or town, we can ask for better directions to get back to the main road.” She shifts on her mount to scratch an itch her fingers can reach. Argo, her dracolisk, makes a low sound that sounds scratchy and shrill.

“What is it?” Hadiza asks, not looking up from her map. Samson rolls his eyes. He hates the damned dragon-pony freak, but it seems damn fond of his wife, and so he must endure. It’s ugly as sin, all teeth, scales, and creepy eyes, and yet she kisses it and scratches it like it’s a damned mabari.

“Ah,” she says, “here we are. Let’s go!” Without warning, she rolls up her map and puts it into one of her saddlebags, and spurs Argo into action, who in turn screeches in surprise and then joy as he tears down the dirt path. Samson spurs his charger into action, galloping behind her.

He still has has half a mind to go and find that two-bit con man and tear his lungs out through his neck. But, as the ride continues, and they burst onto the main road, with signs pointing toward Starkhaven, he finds his anger cooling, and they ride, chasing the sun across the sky.

Later, they make camp as the light dies at the end of the day. It feels good to be under the stars again, Samson won’t lie, but he would much rather be home. Still, resting his back against the fallen tree, with her leaning into him, he can’t complain.

“Think your sister will remember to hold back when she’s in the arena?” Samson asks and Hadiza makes a sound of amusement.

“If she doesn’t we’ll have an incident on our hands soon enough. But she’s not some mindless brute, Samson. She’s…just very enthusiastic when she fights.”

Samson laughs. “Don’t have to tell me. I’m well-acquainted with that enthusiasm. Me and what’s left of my damned ribs.”

Hadiza grins, eyes closed, halfway toward sleep.

“Got you with that move, did she? She’s pretty strong.”

“Girl could lift two druffalo if she wanted. How did you two come out so different?”

Hadiza yawns, adjusting against him as a log slips in the fire, cracking loudly.

“I was a Circle mage, love. Didn’t exactly have the space and time necessary to build like she did. Aside, are you complaining?”

Samson squeezes her shoulders reassuringly.

“Never that. I kind of like you…like this. All soft in the middle. Soft in other places too. Now that I think about it…mmm…”

“Rein it in, you hound.”

Samson makes a quiet but plaintive howling noise in response, grinning as she laughs.

In the morning, they make quick work of their breakfast, and ride the remainder of the day to Starkhaven. The gates have been thrown open in welcome to every Marcher and tourist, and both Samson and Hadiza are taken aback by the sheer size and scope of the city. Coming from Ostwick, Hadiza likes to think she knows large cities, but Starkhaven is a kingdom in its own right. And from Kirkwall, Samson knows both Ostwick and Starkhaven dwarf his home in size.

And after spending so much time living on the outskirts of Hercinia, they realize how far out of touch they have been with city life.

“Maker…” Hadiza breathes as they dismount and walk their mounts beneath the enormous portcullis, ignoring the nervousness of the guards as they take a look at the dracolisk and decide not to say anything.

“Can’t believe I know the man who runs this place,” Samson mutters, “do we have to go see him?”

Hadiza thinks for a moment. “I don’t think so. We’re guests and tourists like everyone else. Aside, the invitation was from Aja, not Sebastian.” She smiles, “I’ve never met the Prince. I hear he’s handsome, though.”

Samson snorts. “Yeah, a real pretty lad. And self-righteous the way any Chantry boy would be. Could give Rutherford a run for his money in that.”

Hadiza laughs. “It’s not as if it would take much effort. Cullen isn’t _that_ self-righteous.”

“Tuh.” Samson says with another snort, but nothing more. “So where do we go?”

“Josephine told us to meet her at the Spoon & Tankard Inn. No doubt it’s packed to overflowing, however.” Hadiza and Samson cut their way through the crowd, easy enough with the wide avenues, and tree-lined median to direct the flow of pedestrian traffic. They find the Spoon & Tankard easy enough, and pay the stable lad two silvers to board their mounts. Hadiza helps him with Argo, who tolerates the boy’s nervousness with as much dignity as he can manage with a face full of serrated fangs.

Afterward, they take a look inside. Hadiza is right: it is full to overflowing. Still, they manage to squeeze into some seats, surrounded by boisterous laughter and chatter. It becomes clear that their quiet, secluded life in the coastal woods of Hercinia has made them sensitive to such noise. They share a knowing look, wincing as the noise rises and falls around them. After a while, they leave the tavern to stand outside, where the noise is much quieter by comparison.

“We need to socialize more.” Hadiza says, her hand finding his. Samson laughs.

“Never thought I’d say I hate the city, but the noise is too much.” He mutters, digging into his ear with a finger.

“Well then,” Josephine says brightly as she and Aja come upon them, “it’s a good thing we’ll be staying outside the city proper.”

Hadiza lets out a small, delighted sound and goes to hug Aja and Josephine both, tight and warm.

“I’m sorry we’re late!” She says and Aja frowns.

“You’re not late. Tourney doesn’t commence until tomorrow. You’re just in time.” Aja puts an arm around her sister’s shoulders, squeezing.

“Why don’t we all grab something to eat? I’m sure you two are famished from the trip. You rode all the way here?”

“Was her idea,” Samson says, “can’t feel any part of my arse for all that riding we did. Hell-for-leather, it’s called.” Hadiza smirks at him and he tries to frown, but smirks back.

“Well! You’re both here, now.” Josephine says, “I can have meals set in our tent and you’re all invited to attend with us.”

Thus agreed, they set out. The festivities are in full swing, and a Rivaini _djali_ is present, entertaining those who have set up tents around the city. Around their own bonfire, the former members of the Inquisition, and the former Inquisitor, laugh and share jokes. Ariadne stares at the fire, picking idly at her food of roast lamb.

The Rivaini _djali_ makes his way toward them. Hadiza grins, and greets him in their milk-tongue, flashing a few silvers.

“You are of House Fayé,” he says in awe, “truly the spirits have blessed me to see one of the mighty of the noble line of Fayé.” He bows. “I am Cheikh. For you, I shall sing for free. The privilege is mine.”

Hadiza bites her lip, remembering. Aja laughs as the _djali_ begins to strum on his kora, and Hadiza listens as his voice, clear and true, weaves with the notes of an ancient song. Aja sways with Josephine, leaning over to translate the song in her ear. Josephine’s cheeks bloom rosy in the firelight as Aja’s lips occasionally find her ear lobe, the tender span of flesh just beneath.

Hadiza leans into Samson, smiling languidly.

Ariadne watches both sisters, out of place. She does not speak the tongue of their shared mother, and never bothered to learn. For a brief moment, she feels something akin to _envy_ well in her blood like a bitter poison. Rylen’s hand finds hers, but she takes her hand away instinctively.

The song ends, and they applaud. Despite his insistence that he will not accept money, Hadiza insists that he must. After much deliberating, Cheikh accepts the silver, promising to speak her and Aja’s name at every point where the spirit world and the corporeal world intersect, that her and her sister’s names might be forever blessed.

“Well.” Aja laughs, gnawing on the picked bones of lamb left on her plate, “That’s something I never expected this far from Rivain. Guess I’ll need those blessings during the Tourney, eh?”

“If I remember correctly,” Rylen says, “didn’t you punch a varghest in the nose?”

Aja shrugs, feigning bashfulness. Josephine’s eyes go wide.

“You did _what_?” And Aja laughs.

“It was a long time ago, I had a lot to drink, and Hadiza was being a slave driver about the time.”

Hadiza frowns. “I was not. You’re the one who insisted ‘we have to headstart on those Venatori cocksuckers’ or whatever it was you said that morning.”

They laugh uproariously at that.

“That sounds like Trevelyan,” Samson says, “can’t say I blame her.”

Josephine shakes her head in disbelief.

“So…” Rylen asks, “Who won? You or the varghest?”

Aja thinks to herself for a moment.

“Nobody, actually.” She says, “After I punched it, it bit me and I was out for a week while Hadiza drew out the poison.”

Hadiza rolls her eyes. “Set us back an entire two weeks for that expedition.”

Ariadne frowns. “Wait, wasn’t this right before you hired me?”

Hadiza gnaws her lower lip. “Yes. We were called out of the Approach after that to attend to something else. I told Leliana to handle it.”

Rylen and Ariadne share a glance, and he smirks. She rolls her eyes.

“If you say something along the lines of ‘and then they brought me you’, Rylen, I will smother you in your sleep.” She warns. Rylen laughs.

“You’re such a romantic, Ari.”

As the night deepens, they retire one by one to their tents. Aja and Josephine lay awake as Josephine makes final preparations before the Tourney’s commencement in the morning. Aja watches her pace in her nightgown, smiling.

“Come to bed, Josie.” She says and Josephine holds up a finger to stall. Aja sighs, leaning back against the cushions. She’s asleep within minutes, more fatigued than she realized.


	3. Chapter 3

The commencement ceremony for the Grand Tourney is a loud and haughty affair. The contestants stand in the grand arena, constructed centuries before for the first Grand Tourney, in the style of Ancient Tevinter, while the Prince of Starkhaven addresses the gathered crowd. It is mostly comprised of those native to the Marches, but there are the masked faces of Orlesian nobility as well, and the dusky faces of Rivaini nobility, and even the sharp and sinister mystique of Tevinter is present.

The Tourney draws to it any and everyone who is eager to see blood on the sand. It is here, in this arena, where old grudges can be laid aside in the spirit of sportsmanship.

Josephine has procured a shaded area in the arena, next to the the entourage of one Marquise Duval, who sits masked and stoic, attended by servants, also masked, flitting about him like anxious birds. Samson crosses his arms, lip curling at the sight, but a gentle nudge from Hadiza loosens the tension of his mood.

They spot Aja’s armor amidst the crowd of contestants, weathered and distinct in the harsh but watery light of the sun. Prince Sebastian’s voice is resonant, carrying across, commemorating those that came before, honoring those that are present now, and welcoming all as guests of his bright and fair city.

Thus is the Tourney commenced.

The first bout is announced, a match between a burly looking brute from Ansburg, and a wiry warrior from Kirkwall. These bouts are dregs, and the early matches are to whet the appetites for when the contenders are eliminated and narrowed down to only the strongest and most determined participants.

It does not take long for the crowd to take notice of Aja’s ferocity.

Hadiza smiles proudly alongside Josephine, knowing that the edge of Aja’s skill has been honed razor sharp along the whetstone of experience, has been forged in the fires of actual _dragons_. Facing down a tall barbarian from the Anderfels is child’s play to her, and they watch as she toys with him, knowing the ring of Reaver madness bleeds into the steely hue of her eyes.

The Grand Tourney is a bountiful feast to a Reaver, and beneath their pride runs the rich current of worry that perhaps one opponent might go too far, might provoke the beast that sleeps beneath Aja’s skin like some strange, formless leviathan beneath placid waters. But as the day wears on, and Aja’s name moves consistently upwards, no eruption occurs.

And like any warrior in favor of the crowd, she grows to love the attention, hyping the crowd up with cries of victory, only to have them roar back at her, eager to see her face down her next challenger.

The first day is a success for what is quickly becoming known as Team Trevelyan.

They celebrate Aja’s victory that evening, drinking to her ensuing fame, and recounting their favorite parts of her matches. Samson and Rylen both appraise her skill openly, and her unique use of shield-wielding techniques. Josephine glows with quiet pride next to Aja, who nurses a bruised chin with a block of ice wrapped in cloth, crafted by her sister.

The Rivaini _djali_ , Cheikh, returns that evening, asking to sing Aja’s deeds into memory. Aja and Cheikh exchange words in Rivaini, and she tosses him a silver, telling him to hold off on his song until the end of the Tourney. It would not do to sing only to have her lose, would it not?

Hadiza laughs.

“So you’re not just in it for the sport, eh?” She teases, “You actually want to win this time?”

Aja snorts. “Of course. And under my own name too! No monikers this time. Just Lord Trevelyan, coming to kick everyone’s ass.”

They laugh at that, and toast to her hopeful victory.

The night grows quiet as all the assembled camps turn in for the night, and Starkhaven guardsmen patrol the perimeter of light from a dozen or more campfires. Hadiza and Samson retreat to their tent, a less lavish affair than the one Josephine and Aja share, which is ironic.

“You know,” Aja says, when she and Josephine are alone, “I could use my lady’s favor for tomorrow’s matches.” Josephine is combing out her hair, running her fingers through the thick and heavy torrent of waves, and she smiles to herself, the blush rising in her cheeks.

“I have given you many favors, Lord Trevelyan,” she says coyly, “have you not enough to see this through?”

She feels rather than hears Aja move across the room, her footsteps as soundless as a ghost. The heat of her is felt at her back as Aja leans in, arms coming to link around her. Josephine smells the strong, minty scent of the salve she uses on her wounds, along with the clean scent of the soap.

“I do not think,” Aja says quietly, and Josephine sees their reflection in the small mirror in front of her, “that another would be so bad, do you?”

Josephine watches her reflection draw in a deep breath, watches her reflection’s dark eyes glimmer with anticipation, sees the dagger smile of her lover cut across her face, the flash of gold-capped fangs…

“You must promise to sleep tonight.” Josephine says, watching her lips shape the words and the Reaver devour them like tender morsels of rare treats.

“Agreed.” Aja says, “Shall we?”

Josephine looks up at her, and Aja leans down to kiss her waiting mouth. It is strangely erotic, to be kissing the lower lip at the same time, but it gives Josephine access to Aja’s throat, which she tastes with the tip of her tongue. The moment is cut short as Josephine leans back too far in her seat, and they tumble groundward, laughing as Aja catches her in a strong and steady embrace, breaking her fall.

“Perhaps the bed is a more amiable location.” Josephine suggests, sitting up to look down at Aja. Aja’s brows raise up in a knowing look, even as her hands span the breadth of Josephine’s ribcage, stopping just beneath the curve of her breasts. She can feel the heat between Josie’s thighs, the dampness of it leaving a signature on the tight muscles of her abdomen.

Neither one of them move to the bed, as Josephine lifts her gown, dainty and measured, over her head. Aja’s smirk becomes a grin, and one hand smoothes down the curve of her back, fingers slipping with ease between the rotund curves of her rear.

Josephine gasps, and then lets out a small sound in the still heat of the tent as Aja rolls the puffy bud of a nipple between her fingers. Impatiently, Josie rocks her hips back and forth and Aja has to take a deep breath from the wet trail of slick she leaves on her skin.

_Maker_. It is good to be blessed and highly favored by one’s lady.

* * *

The morning is met with grogginess, and none too few in the Tourney camps are nursing aching heads from a night of revelry and carousing. Aja emerges from her tent, satisfied and clear-eyed, already armored and ready to begin the day’s events. Josephine emerges behind her, clad in a gown of soft silk, stiff with brocade. She takes a kerchief and gently tucks it away in Aja’s cuirass, near her heart. Aja leans down and meets her in a kiss, her arm around Josie’s waist.

Samson and Hadiza join them momentarily, with Hadiza clad in the trappings of a Rivaini noblewoman, in a two piece gown of flowing silk and gauze, her hair crowned with a _gele_  evocative of a blooming rose. Samson, for his part, is content to wear the garb of a common Marcher. He relishes the strange and awestruck looks from passerby when he walks arm in arm with Hadiza, whose false arm lends an alien appearance to her already contrasting look.

Rylen joins them alone.

“Where is Ari?” Hadiza asks and Rylen shrugs.

“She didn’t join us last night,” Josephine remarks, “I hope she didn’t leave because she felt…unwanted?”

“Nonsense,” Hadiza says, clucking her tongue, “why would Ari ever feel unwanted? Rylen, if you see her, tell her we miss her.”

Rylen laughs. “I think she just wants to move on her own today,” he explains, but even he is unsure. He who spends more time closer to the Ghost than anyone in memory, cannot claim to know her mannerisms. He does not ask, nor does she offer to tell him. He simply waits for her return. It’s maddening at times, but it can’t be helped.

They accept his answer, confident that he knows her best when nothing can be farther from the truth.

They make their way to the arena after a light breakfast of fresh fruit and bread with chilled wine, courtesy of Josephine’s own entourage. Again, they are seated next to Marquise Duval’s entourage, but this time, the Marquis is not in attendance, although his servants are very much present.

None of them find anything amiss, thinking Orlesians favor fashionable tardiness even to a sporting event.

The day’s matches are far more exciting. With the contestants having gotten a taste of one another’s steel, they fight with far more confidence and determination. Aja moves with a sailor’s enviable nimbleness, her heavily muscled stature and height belying a wicked and deadly speed. She faces two dwarf opponents in, and it is admittedly her hardest bout thus far. The dwarves are quick, using their diminished height to keep her balance precarious at best, forcing her to come down to their level and face their weapons.

The bout is met with mocking laughter from some, but as it wears on, the dwarves’ skill becomes far more apparent. The brotherly duo–Mettic and Vettic respectively–move with quick and careless grace, but act as hammer and anvil. Aja divides her attentions, forced to block one while fending off the other.

“Hey, that’s not fair.” Hadiza mutters, recalling her own trials.

“Fair’s fair, princess.” Samson tells her, “Nothin’ in the rules against this, shitty as it is. Damn dwarves got superior weapons too. Her shield won’t last much longer unless she manages to corner one of them long enough to knock him loose a few pegs.”

Hadiza nods in agreement.

“Even if she does,” Rylen chimes in, “they’re wearing her down. Look.”

It’s true. Aja has been spending too much time blocking and deflecting, and less time hitting. There is also something else.

“Why is she holding back?” Hadiza demands.

“What do you mean?” Rylen asks, brow knitted in confusion.

“She’s not…check her stances. Look, see how there’s a bit of a lag in her transition? She’s hesitating. If she were fighting full out this match would have been over.”

Samson laughs, licking his teeth. “Yeah, and we’d have two dead dwarves on our hands, princess. She’s biding her time, trying to think on how to win this thing bloodlessly.”

Hadiza frowns for a moment, not having it. Then, she stands up, cupping her hands around her mouth, and yells.

“KICK THEIR ASSES, AJA! STOP PLAYING AROUND OR I’LL COME OUT THERE MYSELF AND KICK YOUR ASS AND THEIRS!”

Hadiza sits with a huff and both Rylen and Samson exchange wide-eyed glances.

“Don’t think they heard you in the Anderfels, princess.” Samson says, putting an arm around her shoulders, but the next moments send him leaning forward in his seat.

Aja’s lag time vanishes, and she lets out a roar that Samson has known could shake the hardest man in his plate armor. Maker’s Balls, it certainly put him in a fearful mood once or twice.

The match’s tide turns as Aja begins her merciless counterattack. One brother is taken off guard by the sudden onslaught, and she drives him into the sand, bearing down on him like a dark tide. When she comes up, the brother lies still, and Team Trevelyan hopes it is the stillness of unconsciousness and not death.

The second brother, bereft of his other half, must now face the battle-mad Reaver alone. Aja turns the full of her ferocity on him, and from there it is a chase of predator and prey. To his credit, Vettic does not back down, and he fights valiantly, but there is no stamina like a Reaver’s, who feeds on the very nature of war itself.

Aja makes quick work of Vettic, and soon two dwarves lay sprawled in the sand around her. Hadiza is no longer in a sporting mood, and she and Josephine watch with baited breath. Hadiza knows what the signs are, as Aja’s body quivers like a bow in full-draw, taut with potential energy, senses on fire with sensation as the taste for battle floods her veins like a heady narcotic.

“Come down,” Hadiza whispers, “come down.” It becomes a mantra she mouths in the roar of the crowd as Aja stands still. She knows, as Josephine does, that Aja is fighting her own nature. Even with the draught of control, leashing the madness that swims in the pipes of her veins is hard work.

“Come down.” Hadiza whispers again, “It’s over; come down.”

Aja’s body slowly relaxes, and she lowers her sword and shield, visibly exhausted and weary to the bone. The crowd’s roar is deafening as she trudges forward. For them, however, she manages a victory pose, and Hadiza sighs with relief, reaching for Josephine’s hand to squeeze it reassuringly.

Later, the celebrations are muted and brief. Aja is exhausted both from her match and the private war she waged within herself immediately after. She is less talkative, most of her thoughts turned inward as she nurses her wounds for the day with Hadiza’s deft and expert aid.

They part ways for the evening, and Aja collapses into bed, tucked in by Josephine.

The following dawn is heralded by hysterical shrieks of terror.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enough screaming, time for some yelling.

The camps are in a state of bedlam.

Starkhaven’s guards are scrambled all over, and the Prince himself has descended from his morning prayer in the Chantry to attend to the commotion.

“What?” Aja pokes her head out, half-dressed, “What the fuck is going on?”

A passing page stumbles, and she quickly reaches out to snatch him by the elbow before he falls.

“Hey!” She snaps, “What’s all the fuss?”

The page hesitates, seems torn between running and remaining tight-lipped, but Aja’s grip cements around his tender bones, and the ring of red in her eyes grows in warning.

“M-murder!” He stammers out, “There’s b-been a murder! Some...some Orlesian lord!”

Aja frowns and releases him, watching as he stumbles away, caught between fear and absolute terror. Josephine is already dressed when she returns to her tent.

“It would seem there is to be no respite,” Aja says washing her face in the shallow basin balanced on a plinth, “there’s been a murder. My guess is it’s going to stick in someone’s craw enough to postpone the Tourney.”

Josephine adjusts her cravat and necklace. Deftly, she sweeps up her hair in an elegant coif. Aja watches her transform in the soft, diluted light, from the woman to the diplomat.

Hadiza and Samson are already dressed and waiting, having heard the news as it broke with the dawn.

“Maker’s mercy,” Hadiza mutters, “a whole day, was it?” She adjusts the rolling joint in the wrist of her false arm, the lyrium engravings flaring as the fingers suddenly wiggle to life.

“A whole day.” Samson laughs. “I was beginning to think we’d make it the whole damn Tourney without any trouble.”

“Where’s Rylen?” Aja asks, fastening her locks behind her head.

They find out within moments as a bell tolls. The criminal has been caught.

* * *

 

They find Rylen in the city, arguing with the captain of the guard while Prince Sebastian Vael watches, cerulean eyes as hard and unreadable as anything Hadiza has ever seen. Though the title of Inquisitor is something she no longer carries, the mask slips on as easily as an old and familiar coat, and she joins Rylen, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Ariadne stands between several guards men, clapped in chains. Hadiza worries for a moment that there is a body count behind her, but there seems to be no blood on her save her hands. Her expression is unreadable.

“Rylen,” Hadiza says, “what happened?”

Rylen turns on her.

“These fools seem to think Ari killed that Orlesian lord!”

Hadiza sucks in a breath and feels herself turning to steel as she turns to the Prince.

“Your Highness,” she says primly, “is there somewhere less public we can sort this out?”

Sebastian studies Hadiza briefly, and the growing crowd around them in his peripheral vision.

“Yes,” he says, “but I’ll warn you that the evidence is insurmountable, Inquisitor.”

The words _I’m not the Inquisitor_ hover on the tip of Hadiza’s tongue, but she curls it into the roof of her mouth and swallows them. If the title holds weight, then she will not gainsay him.

The guards take Ariadne away, who follows complacently. Rylen seems ready to free her, but Samson stills him, shaking his head. They are taken to what is colloquially known as the ‘Justice Quarter’, where the guardsmen are housed, and where the dungeons are kept. Starkhaven is not Kirkwall, which was built to imprison slaves and prevent escape, but it is no less formidable and imposing. Hadiza knows that even if Ariadne decides to free herself, there are sheer numbers waiting to overwhelm her should she make it out into the street.

She prays pragmatism rules in favor of freedom.

Sebastian banishes his guardsmen, leaving only himself, the guard captain, Hadiza, and her companions in the interrogation room. Rylen is fuming beneath the skin, his scarred face flushed red with anger.

“If you would,” Hadiza says to the guardsman, “please explain to me how you came to the conclusion that my companion murdered--”

“--Marquis Duval.” The guard captain sneers. “She was found in his chambers this morning, crouched over his body, his blood on her hands, and his throat cut from ear to ear.”

Hadiza’s brows go up.

“That’s convenient.” She says, “And damning, to be sure. But she has no motive.”

“Inquisitor,” Sebastian says and she turns her gaze on him, “she needs none. A murder has been committed in my city during the busiest time of year, and she was caught. There does not seem to be much room to contest this.”

“Perhaps,” Josephine says, stepping next to Hadiza, “if you would allow us to speak with her? Perhaps it is a misunderstanding.”

“A misunder--” The guard captain scoffs, “--are you mad? The girl was caught! The servants saw her! This is an easy enough case to solve.”

“But we still have a right to speak with her, yes?” Hadiza asks, pointedly keeping her gaze on Sebastian, “Perhaps we can glean more information on the events.”

“I will remind you that the Inquisition is no more.” Sebastian warns.

“And yet you insist on calling me the Inquisitor, Highness.” Hadiza rewards him with a thin smile which he does not return. Sebastian measures her for a moment and Hadiza’s gaze is unflinching. Steel crosses cerulean, before Sebastian makes a subtle gesture with his hand.

“Very well,” he says, “I am not a tyrant. You will be allowed an audience with her under guard. But as I said: there is not much you can do to refute this.”

Hadiza bows, lowering her gaze.

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

* * *

 

Ariadne watches as shadows pass through the light slatted through the tiny barred window of her cell door. The room is stale with the scent of human excrement and stink, but she has endured worse. She waits patiently, and as her door unlocks and swings open, Hadiza and Rylen enter.

The door shuts behind them.

“Before you ask,” Ariadne says, “know that I cannot tell you anything.”

Hadiza and Rylen exchange a brief glance, and he comes to her, mindful of the chains that binds her wrists and ankles.

“Ari tell me you didn’t do this.” He murmurs, “Tell me this isn’t what had you occupied last night.”

Ariadne watches him, her expression cool. Rylen searches her face for the uncharted text only he can read. Hadiza sees only emptiness.

Ariadne looks away.

“Maker’s Blood...” Rylen whispers running his hands through his cropped hair. He tries to look at her, finds that he does not know how, and walks away, leaving the room. Ariadne takes a deep breath of the foul, fetid air, and exhales slowly.

Hadiza sighs.

“Ari,” she says gently, “you have to give me something. They mean to _kill you_. You’ve committed murder. You’ve slain a noble. And what’s worse: you were caught! This isn’t like you at all...”

Ariadne looks up, taking in her half-sister’s plaintive expression, her hurt silver eyes, the soft pout of her full lips. Everything about Hadiza disgusts her in that moment. It is weak and craven and foolish.

“This doesn’t concern you.” Ari says.

Hadiza draws back.

“You came to Starkhaven for the Tourney,” Hadiza snaps, “you camped with us. You broke bread with us. And then you assassinated a nobleman! What the hell am I supposed to think, Ari? It concerns me.”

Ari spits.

“Had you not involved yourself--had any of you not involved yourselves, this would have been handled.” Ariadne says, “But now you have complicated things.”

Hadiza is quiet, wishing Rylen were here to translate for her. Instead, she waits, wondering if Ariadne will give her more than this.

The darkling woman is stubbornly silent.

Hadiza knows time is against them, knows that if she does nothing, Ariadne’s death is assured come that afternoon. Already she can hear the headsman grinding his axe on the whetstone, can hear the sound of the gallows being set up in the square. Sebastian is no tyrant, but he is fair and stern. An example will be made.

Outside the city, in the arena, the Tourney continues.

“Ariadne.” Hadiza says, more determined, “Give me a sign. This is some long game you’re playing, I know this. You need to give me a sign. Maybe I can help you.”

Ariadne looks up again, stares at Hadiza, and laughs.

“You’re not cut out for my line of work, Hadiza.” She sneers, “Don’t try it.”

Hadiza closes the distance in an instant, eyes flashing dangerously. She reaches for her magic and finds her mana suppressed. The prison is built to keep mages and non-magical folk alike.

Ariadne smirks, triumphant.

“Why are you like this?” Hadiza asks, “Why won’t you just let us help you? Rylen is mad to be with you if this is how you are.”

Ariadne spits in Hadiza’s face.

“Says the bitch who spreads herself for her war criminal husband every other night.” She says with a laugh. “No matter how much you take his cock, Hadiza, it won’t absolve him, so don’t you dare judge me, nor Rylen. He has nothing to do with this.”

Hadiza wipes the spit from her face, angry, but silent.

“Go.” Ari says laconically, “Go enjoy the Tourney. I don’t need you or anyone to assist me.”

Hadiza has no choice, because the guard captain has come to tell her time is up.

She leaves without looking back, and Ariadne does not watch her go.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the gang decides to investigate.

“Alright,” Samson says, “you’re telling me that the entire night we were drinking, Ariadne was assassinating some Orlesian lordling?”

“Several witnesses have come forward placing her at the scene,” Hadiza says tiredly, passing her hand over her face, “and she refuses to confirm or deny the crime.”

Josephine taps her lips with an index finger.

“Marquise Duval was a minor lord,” she says thoughtfully, “with no true powerful connections to speak of. At least, nothing that would warrant strong political blowback. Still, it does not make sense for someone of Ariadne’s skill to be hired for such a minor noble.”

“It could be she was framed.” Aja suggests, taking a strong pull from her wineskin, “I mean, she’s got enemies, right?”

“None who are still breathing.” Hadiza laughs, “That is one thing I will give her: she leaves no witnesses, no enemies either. For her to have even been caught and apprehended leads me to believe there’s something amiss.”

Rylen has not spoken.

“I’ve managed to speak with the Prince regarding the matter,” Josephine says, “he is adamant in her guilt, and will not undermine justice for our investigation.”

“I don’t understand,” Samson says irritably, “why hinder our investigation? Doesn’t he want to know why she did it? If she did it at all?”

Rylen slams his fist down on the table in a rare moment of unalloyed fury. All eyes turn to him, some startled, others frowning.

“Because she’s likely protecting her client.” He grates out. “Whoever hired her to do this is important enough, and Ari has never betrayed a client’s identity.”

Samson laughs. “Never say never, Rylen. Everyone’s got a price.”

Rylen turns his awful blue gaze on Samson.

“Just because you were bought with a vial of lyrium and false promises doesn’t mean--”

Hadiza’s voice cuts through the tension, sure and true.

“Enough!” She shouts, “We won’t solve this mystery coming for one another’s throats. Rylen, see if you can speak to Ariadne alone, it may be she’ll yield somewhat for you she won’t for the rest of us.” She stood, stretching and scratching at her ribcage idly. “Josephine, get him in there and pull whatever strings you must; keep delaying the Prince and his hounds if you can. Aja, sorry, but you’ll have to sit this one out.”

“What?!” Aja yells, “You need me for this mission, Diza! You can’t be--”

“What I _need_ ,” Hadiza interrupts, “is for you to be all over the Grand Tourney, ensuring everyone that all is well in our camp. Samson and I will hunt for clues. No one will take it amiss if the Inquisitor and her irascible husband can’t stop gnawing at a bone. But they _will_ become concerned if her sister--a headlining participant in the Grand Tourney--joins in the investigation. Let them believe that it is not so serious as all that. Now, any questions?”

To that, there are none. Hadiza claps her hands together, although there is no sound. She smiles brightly.

“Good. Then we all know our duties. Let’s get to it.”

As they disperse, Samson comes to stand by her side.

“You know there’s a chance that she is guilty, princess.” He says quietly, his voice grave. Hadiza’s mouth levels into a neutral line, and she takes a deep breath, heaving a sigh.

“I know. But for now, let’s focus on finding out more about this murder. Time is already against us and Josephine can only call in so many favors.” She brushes her fingertips against his, smiling. He smiles back, and they head off into the city, hoping to find something...anything.

But the shadow of doubt begins to grow, regardless.

* * *

 

Josephine’s sterling reputations and high-placed connections bring her to the Starkhaven judiciary, where the case has been documented in all the attendant details. She has also greased the palms of the jailers with gold, ensuring they allow Rylen time to get answers from Ariadne while she investigates the case and pleads for a delay in the execution.

It is a frustrating process, to deal with bureaucracy in all its foibles, listening to a dried up old prig of a pampered official drone on about how one must have official permission from this or that department in order to be given access to records such as these.

Josephine pinches the bridge of her nose, wishing she still had the weight of the Inquisition at her back. Would that Hadiza had not dissolved the organization. They’d need no gold to grease palms, or honeyed words to open doors and unseal parchments meant for the eyes of the Prince of Starkhaven alone.

In the end, she finds herself given access, only because she has spent yet another coin of her influence on the judiciary’s blushing assistant.

“He’s as like to kill me if he catches me aiding you, milady,” the man says, sweat beading on his neck, staining her stiff cravat, “but I’d expected better treatment from one who used to be in the Inquisition.”

Josephine smiles, her dark eyes flashing with mischief.

“Thank you,” she says sweetly, making a fair copy of the documents before returning the originals to him, “your aid is much appreciated and it is my hope that it will be greatly rewarded once our investigation is complete.”

The boy blushes, tugging at his stained cravat, his teeth yellow and caked with residue from lack of care. Josephine’s smile never leaves her face as she leaves the building, and she even shoots the head judiciary a charming smile, tinged with unfeigned bitterness. He grumbles under his breath about Antivans and the ‘damnable Inquisition resting on its laurels’, but says nothing further on the matter, returning to his own work.

* * *

 

Ariadne sits in stillness in a cell illuminated only by the light from underneath the door. The darkness does not frighten her, nor the silence. She knows, beyond the shadow of a doubt, what lurks within both, and leans her head back to shut her eyes. No, she fears neither darkness nor silence.

Death, however...

She hears the rhythm of footsteps outside the door, the heavy metallic chime of keys on a ring, and the heavy click of a bolt turning to unlock it. If they think she’ll attempt escape, they are wrong, and even so, the length of chain only allows her to the middle of the cell and no further. She levels her impassive gaze at the rectangle of light as the door swings open with an ominous groan and creak.

Rylen stands there and Ariadne’s face is scoured of emotion, but her deeper intake of breath says more than any expression she can muster. He turns to the guards, murmurs somewhat to them she cannot hear, and enters, bearing a single torch. He places it on the sconce in the far wall, illuminating the cell with golden light.

“Come to question me as well, I gather.” Ariadne’s voice is wry with amusement, but void of everything else. Rylen frowns.

“As a matter of fact, I have.” He says. Ariadne does not move and neither does he. In the span of a single night, whatever closeness they have cultivated in the long years behind them, has split with the weight of her guilt. The schism is vast, and Ariadne makes no sign that she will attempt to bridge it again. It galls Rylen, who has done nothing but accommodate her esoteric nature all this time.

“Why, Ari?” He asks quietly, “Was it all part of your plan? The Tourney just a way for you to get close to your target?”

Ariadne does not answer him, but her gaze is watchful, a predator confident in its own demesne.

“Answer me.” He says, “You owe me that much, at the very least.”

Ariadne laughs.

“I owe you for what, Rylen? The sex? You have given me what I have given a thousand and one men. You have given me what I could have from anyone if I chose. Do not presume yourself so special because I have focused on you.”

Rylen does not flinch in the face of her cruelty. He has learned, her templar has, to not show fear and hurt in the presence of a woman to whom blood is blood and it will out.

“So.” He says, “It’s come to that, has it? This was nothing but another long game for you? Over a minor noble with barely any influence to even warrant gossip. Never thought I’d see the Ghost stoop to such cheap contract killing.”

It’s a gamble, he knows it’s a gamble, but it is one he will risk for love’s sake. The bait sits on placid waters, and the leviathan he has seen so often swimming beneath his Ghost’s skin, rises to the surface. Chains jangle as she rises in a fluid motion, crossing the distance until the chains are nearly drawn taut.

“What you ask, Rylen,” she says dangerously, “may cost your life in the answering.”

“Who are you protecting?” He asks, stepping closer, just beyond her reach, damn him. “Who is it that has you willing to tarnish your reputation for their sake? What client is worth this?”

Ariadne doesn’t answer, won’t say anything. Rylen will break before her indomitable silence, she knows it. But he will live, at least.

“Tell me.” He says, stepping closer. Ariadne reaches for him, but he has learned, her templar has, and his speed matches her own, capturing her wrists before she can touch him. Her pulse leaps beneath the press of his thumbs and her pupils swallow the silver of her eyes until they are merely an eclipse, a ring of steels around blackness. Then they shrink, dwindling to that preternatural point that makes Rylen question her parentage.

But blood will out, and love is party to madness, and so he kisses her instead. Kisses her because he cannot find the words to express anything else. Anger, love, joy, misery, all of these things she brings him. And in the void between their panting mouths, she gives him an answer.

* * *

 

Aja’s fury takes to the field in the spear throwing contest. She wishes, badly, that the target were flesh and blood, and not canvas stuffed with straw. Still, her strength and fury are enough to send the shaft of the spear darting through the air, sinking with such force as to make it wobble. Her male compatriots are astounded, of course, and none too few send leers her way, which she ignores.

This Tourney is a joke to her, and the Reaver beneath her skin aches to draw blood, to feel the delicious pain of battle, to open the life veins of her enemies and spatter herself with their blood.

It is just as well Hadiza has told her to maintain appearances.

Aja glances around, noting that even in the wake of a murder, the audience is not subdued in the slightest. They are roaring, and there, shining like a star in broad daylight, is Prince Sebastian, his armor gleaming, his crimson cloak a beacon of blood in the distance.

Aja wonders if there is any merit in helping Ariadne. After all, was her modus operandi not mired in the getting of blood on her hands? No, better that she dies, and the world rest easier for it.

Such is Aja’s anger, mingling in congress with her envy.

She places second, and advances to the next round.

* * *

 

“Don’t know what the Inquisitor wants to examine a dead body for, but who am I to question beyond my station, eh?” The morgue keeper is a bent and gnarled old man, clad in little more than moth-eaten rags, one eye scarred shut, though it does nothing to detract from his already wizened visage. Hadiza remains impassive, slipping easily into her title like an old cloak. On the table, the naked and cold body of Marquise Duval lays, bloodless and still. His eyes are closed, and the folds of his neck ragged with the gash that killed him.

“I’ll leave you to it.” The old man laughs, “Try not to get too comfortable. Dead like their privacy to you know.” He laughs again at his own wit, leaving Samson and Hadiza with the corpse.

“So,” Samson says, standing over the Marquise, “you want to look, or shall I?”

Hadiza sighs and pulls the glove from her artificial hand.

“Let’s see if there’s anything abnormal about your death, ser.” She murmurs, the lyrium veins in her arm glowing, the segmented fingers moving in an almost lifelike dance, carving the spell from the Fade. Samson draws on his own abilities, and waits.

The glow from Hadiza’s hands is a sickly and poisonous purple in color, like a noxious fume, and she pours it into the Marquise’s open mouth. Bloodless, she tracks the progress of her magic in the translucency of his skin, watching as it moves within the pipes of his bruised veins like a virus. Samson turns a little green. He has never born much affinity for his wife’s dabbling in necromancy, even something as harmless as this.

The Marquise’s fingers twitch once. Hadiza focuses, her expression locked in one of pensive dedication. Samson’s hand hovers on the hilt of the bejeweled dagger at his belt.

The Marquise’s eyes open wide, the sclera glowing the same, poisonous violet, the pupils so dilated his irises are swallowed by the glassy darkness. He turns his head, sucking air into dead lungs, the bloodless wound on his throat making his voice come out in a reedy wail.

“Sorry about this.” Hadiza says and closes the loop of her spell. The Marquise’s body jerks, goes rigid with the force of the magic and the brain charges once, twice, and a final time as she draws the final memory from the body.

Samson watches with grim stoicism, schooling his face to implacability. They have long since settled the quarrel of the limits Hadiza places on her abilities. They have suffered worse for her pride. Still, it does nothing to ease his nerves seeing her work in this capacity.

Hadiza’s eyes flicker shut, and she gasps once. The memory fills her up, a jumble of images and garbled noise. She holds the spells for as long as she can, trying to make sense of it. An overturned wine cup, spreading crimson on a pristine lace-edged table cloth. A blade hurling end over end, but the range is too wide. It scores her shoulder and she reaches for a wound never received, hissing in the shared pain of the victim’s final movements. More garbled noise.

Samson frowns.

“Hadiza.” He warns.

“I’ve got it.” She says back. She twists the memory, attempts to clear it, makes no sense of the voices speaking. In the doorway, a shadowed silhouette looms brandishing...a blade? A bow? She cannot be certain. A flash of pale skin on a wrist, a flash of steel--Hadiza severs the spell before the killing blow is made, reemerging into her consciousness with a gasp.

“Are you alright?” Samson asks, rounding the table to grasp her shoulders. Her skin is ashen, drained of color, her eyes heavy-lidded. She blinks, shaking her head to regain her bearings.

“It wasn’t her.” She says. “Ariadne didn’t kill the Marquis.”

Samson frowns.

“Are you sure? Those memories are mess if I remember correctly.” He rubs his hands up and down her arms, bringing warmth back to her chilled body. Hadiza shuts her eyes tightly, committing those final moments to memory.

“I’m sure. Ariadne was trying to thwart his murder, I think. Or maybe the other person got to her mark first. Either way, she wasn’t the one who struck the final killing blow.” She steadies herself, steps away from Samson, who releases her. As they leave the morgue, Hadiza swallows.

“How do you know?” He asks. They make their way outside. Hadiza feels something crawling on her neck, swipes at a beetle irritably.

“The hand that held the blade belonged to someone far more pale than my sister. The question is why Ariadne remained to be captured. There’s something not adding up here.” Hadiza’s brows knit in a frown. Samson takes her hand, and they walk, playing the part of lovers on vacation as they make their way back to the outskirts of the city.

“We’ll learn nothing unless we ask Rylen. It may be she’s told him something we might of have missed.” He brings Hadiza’s hand to his lips, kisses her knuckles, making her smile. The part they play is not _entirely_ feigned.

* * *

Rylen relays his report when they convene in Aja and Josephine’s tent that evening. Unlike before, where they communed around a fire to take their meal, they eat in agitated silence, discussing the day’s findings. Aja sulks, still miffed at being left out of the mystery.

“So we are certain that Ariadne is innocent,” Josephine says, looking over the documents she procured from the judiciary, “but we need more than magic and her bare word. We need verifiable and irrefutable proof, Hadiza. We need a confession from the real killer if need be.”

“Tough luck, there,” Aja says, “that could be anyone. Like as not this was likely an elaborate set-up to trap Ari in the first place.”

Hadiza waves her hand. “Who would go through the trouble?” She hesitates, then adds, “Who alive even knows who she is to go through the trouble?”

To that they have no answer, and so their speculation turns to elsewhere.

“It’s too clean.” Samson says, gnawing at the bone of their meal of roast druffalo. “There were conveniently witnesses who happened to see her standing over the Marquis, but no one saw the other killer? No one reported any disturbances beforehand, and we all know Ariadne’s work...that is, we _don’t._ She’s just that good.”

They nodded in agreement. The only one familiar with Ariadne’s work intimately sat the Sunburst Throne, and even Hadiza cannot call in a favor to Leliana to vouch for her sister.

“What about father?” Aja supplies. “Wasn’t she on retainer for him all those years? Cleaning up his messes?”

Hadiza’s lip curls in disgust. “He’s as like to condemn her as vouch for her. He’s only recently been freed of the scandal of her existence. He’ll not bring himself near this, even if you asked it of him.”

Aja shrugs.

“We are running out of time,” Josephine says, “the Prince has agreed to delay Ariadne’s execution for two more days. No more than that can he do. Orlais will want justice for one of their own dying on foreign soil.”

Everyone save Josephine makes a half-hearted sound of agreement at that. She rolls her eyes.

“I’ll be sure to relay condolences to the Marquis’ family.” She says.

“Wouldn’t surprise me if the one had him killed _was_ family.” Samson snorts. Rylen agrees. Josephine purses her lips.

“Be that as it may, we’ve made no real headway for our case, and the penalty is very clear if we waste more time. My advice, Hadiza, would be to get the full story from Ariadne...no half-truths. A name, a trail, a lead, something that will give us real proof to show the Prince and clear her name.”

Hadiza nods. “Rylen, you sure that’s all she told you?”

Rylen sighs. “She wasn’t hired to kill the Marquis. That’s all she told me. Why she’s being so damned stubborn about this is beyond me. She’s not bound to an organization anymore, and she risks blowing all of her covers if she allows herself to be blamed for this murder. She won’t tell me who she’s protecting.”

Hadiza passes her hands over her face. “And her word means nothing with no proof or even a suspect. Rylen, I need you to go and ask her if there’s a lead we can follow...a trail. Anything. Give me a Maker damned _target_.”

Aja smirks.

“What if she’s not protecting anyone?” She muses. “What if she’s _afraid_?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get a little messy for the gang, but headway, headway, headway! Also, Rylen has a plan. It’s absolutely batshit, but it may work. This chapter is a little short, sorry in advance. Next one is a bit longer, hopefully.

“Horse shit.” Samson spits, “Ghost is a lot of things, most of them pretty damn frightening, but I’ve never known her to be afraid of anythin’ made of flesh and blood.”

Rylen laughs into his ale but says nothing to agree or refute that statement.

Aja spreads her hands in a gesture of hopelessness.

“I mean think about it,” she says, “Hadiza cut her leash to House Trevelyan. She’s essentially a weapon just laying around for someone to pick up. But Ari doesn’t seem the type to wait for work to just fall into her lap. And there’s groups out there she’s like to cross in a bad way.”

“That’s preposterous,” Josephine argues, “the only group I could see her being afraid to cross are the Antivan Crows, and like as not they’d have sent an assassin of their own to ensure her silence by now.”

Hadiza sits, her expression pensive.

“Are there not other guilds?” She asks quietly, “Less known than the Crows but just as likely to inspire fear?”

Josephine brushes the feather of her quill over her lips in thought. The intricate mechanism of her mind turns out possibilities, most of them farfetched.

“It’s highly unlikely. Any group that would rival the Crows in reputation would have been known by now...and like as not the Crows would have absorbed their members or destroyed them. They’re a jealous group.” Josephine shudders involuntarily, and Aja squeezes her hand, their fingers interlacing, a shared memory. Hadiza nods solemnly.

“True. But Ariadne disdains assassins who leave signatures.” She says, “She’s said as much to me, at least. She says the mark of a great assassin is that there is no mark at all; that only the deed stands as testament to their work, anonymous but no less impactful. She swears by this. It’s what made her so proficient as my father’s personal cleaner. It stands to reason that there may be another assassin in our midst.”

The thought gives them all cause to think in silence for a moment, considering that repercussions of such a possibility.

“Hadiza,” Josephine says, “if there is another assassin, we need to inform the Prince before they execute Ariadne for a crime she did not commit.”

Rylen crosses his arms, reconsidering.

“What if we laid a trap?” He asks. “Like as not the other assassin is still in the city, waiting for Ariadne to take the fall for their deed and report back to their client.”

Hadiza sits up, interested.

“What are you proposing, Rylen?” She asks, a gleam in her eye. Rylen smirks halfheartedly.

“If it were the Crows, they’d send assassins to kill Ari in her cell, right?” He asks, and Josephine nods in confirmation. “Then it stands to reason that if it looks like Ari’s not getting executed fast enough, that assassin is going to get impatient and try and finish the job.”

“But the Prince only gave us two days!” Josephine contests, “I cannot delay him anymore than that, and that assassin likely has more patience than we give them credit for.”

“Unless there’s no one there to execute.” Rylen says, leveling his gaze at them all.

All eyes turn to him, startled. Aja is grinning fit to split her face, gold teeth gleaming. Hadiza looks uneasy, and Samson laughs. Josephine places her face in her hands.

“What you are suggesting could bring the wrath of the Prince down on all our heads, Rylen.” Hadiza says gravely, “He will halt the Grand Tourney to hunt her down. If Hawke and Varric’s accounts are anything to go by, the man is a veritable mabari on the hunt. He won’t stop until justice is meted out how he sees fit. And then it won’t be one execution but six he’ll be planning out.”

Rylen nods. “True. But if I’m right, then no one will have to die but the assassin in question.”

Hadiza purses her lips.

“Hadiza,” Josephine says plaintively, “I cannot in good conscience countenance this. If this plan goes awry--if we are _wrong_ \--then everything we’ve done before will be forgotten.”

Hadiza shuts her eyes.

“Alright, Rylen.” She says. “I’ll do it. Josephine, Aja, stick to the Tourney. Keep them off our scent by making believe all is well. Rylen, you too.” She levels her gaze at Samson.

“Hadiza, no.” He says, leaning forward. “Don’t.”

“I have to act alone on this one,” she says with a rueful smile, “if I’m caught, then it’s only my life that is forfeit, and you and I both know there is no foundation of stone that can hold me anyway. I can’t risk you too.”

“ _Hadiza_.” Samson says, more firm this time but Hadiza shakes her head.

“I’m doing this alone, Raleigh.” She says, “I need you here for when I come back.”

Samson looks ready to reach for her, to shake her until sense rattles in her pretty head, but his restraint is legendary, and he shuts his eyes against the sight of her. Hadiza waits, and he opens his eyes again, more resolute.

“Alright, princess.” He says, a begrudging resignation coloring his rough voice, “You win this one.”

Hadiza smiles. “That’s right. Alright. You all drink and make merry. Aja, continue to show these other contestants how Marcher girls do it better. I am going to go and commit a heinous crime. Wish me luck.”

“I wish you sense.” Josephine says, but there is affection under her irate tone. Hadiza smiles wider, the charm of it impossible to ignore.

“Can’t say I disagree.” Samson mutters, even as Hadiza leans in to press a firm kiss to his cheek. He continues to grumble, even as she retreats to their shared tent to prepare.

* * *

 

Samson finds her donning an ash-gray cloak when he enters their tent. Compared to the one Josephine and Aja share, it is painfully modest and much smaller.

“Princess.” He says, affectionate, but still angry with her. She spares him a glance over her shoulder, then turns, sensing his mood.

“You know it’s the only way.” She says, already on the defensive. Samson frowns.

“I swore an oath.” He murmurs, running his hands up her arms. “I’m not interested in breaking it. I’ve enough broken oaths under my belt already.”

“You’re not breaking your oath,” she says, “I can handle myself, you know.”

Samson hears the heated pride in her voice, and smiles despite his anger.

“Maker, don’t I know it. Never seen a fiercer mage take to the field. But this isn’t an open battle. I’m not used to this cloak and dagger shit. Your sister’s mixed in with some scary people...and don’t tell me you trained for this. You were 14 when you left home.”

Hadiza frowns, the type of frown that is pretty and not like to cause wrinkles. Samson finds it ridiculous that she has learned to do this, from Vivienne of course.

“And what training I received has never left me. I still know how to sneak about if needed.” She says with offended dignity. Samson squeezes her arms.

“I know. But you’re talking about breaking your sister out of prison...Maker just _saying_ it makes me feel like any moment that damnable Prince and his guards will come storming in to arrest us both.” Samson laughs and Hadiza tilts her head.

“Stop worrying, old man.” She teases. Samson frowns, and unlike Hadiza, it is not pretty. His brow wrinkles, his lips curl, and there is an almost sneering quality to it.

“I’ve got a right to worry about my wife and her nug-brained idea of rescue.” He grouses, “I’ll worry all week and there’s not a damn thing you can do to stop me.”

Hadiza laughs, leaning in to rest her head on his chest.

“Be careful, princess.” Samson breathes into her hair, “I mean it. If you’re caught I’ll cut a path right to the Maker damned dungeon if need be. And let the Prince try and stop me.”

Hadiza looks up.

“Hush.” She says, “It’s time for me to go to work.” She leans up, kissing him. Samson is quiet, but she can feel the unease in him. When she pulls away, she pulls up her hood and Samson notes how unlike a mage she looks in this moment. For all intents and purposes, Hadiza can pass for an assassin herself, dressed as she is. She is unarmed as far as he can tell, save for the obvious dagger in her belt, jeweled and elegant, the only touch of _her_ in the entire ensemble. She looks the part.

“Get to it.” He says, and she is gone, soundless as a shadow, and he is startled at it. Whatever training she received, indeed she had not forgotten it. In this, Samson falls back on his own training, relying on templar fortitude and patience.

He’ll need it until the deed is done.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IF YOU LIKE PINA COLADAAAAAS

Hadiza does not like to dwell on her so-called ‘nug-brained’ ideas too long. She knows the moment she thinks about them, she will begin to doubt their merit, and from thence be unable to carry out any actions. So instead, she focuses on the thrill of moving, cloaked in shadow and night, remembering training from so long ago, but so inured to her that it is like slipping into an old shirt. She can almost hear Ricardo’s voice chastising her for not stepping toe-to-heel, as he’d taught her. Even so, the guards are so preoccupied with the Tourney’s events that idle gossip about the Marquis’ murder has already grown stale as they turn to fresher, richer tidbits of information.

She fingers the bandolier across her chest, grasping one of the pouches filled with the only weapon she will use for this plan. She hopes it will be enough.

_It has to be enough,_ she thinks to herself, making her way down the damp and slippery steps leading to Starkhaven’s dungeons beneath the city, _otherwise there is no point in this._

She’s not surprised to find the guards drowsy at their posts, exhausted likely from the day’s activities, and bored with the night’s inactivity. It is still early yet, and any patrons of the Tourney are as like still carousing in the streets and taverns. They yawn, swaying and setting their armor to creaking, knowing that more than a few of the party-goers will wind up down here soon enough. Hadiza conjures the spell with a deep breath, and exhales.

The breeze is preternatural, guttering the single torch in the sconce above the guard post. The light bends and distorts enough for the guards to become irritated and distracted. She slips behind them unnoticed, the light around her bending away from their eyes, giving her the appearance of the deep shadows, making her way deeper into the dungeon.

Ariadne’s cell is fortified deep in the stone, with only a single, heavy oaken door as the point of exit and entry. Hadiza notes that only one guard is posted to it. He is far more alert than his fellow guardsmen, but she gauges that he is no more brighter than they.

From hence, it is a mere waiting game. The evening meal for the prisoners is being served, and one guard marches down the hall bearing a meager bowl of what Hadiza assumes is edible. She waits, watching the guards exchange pleasantries.

“Crying shame about this one, eh Jorath? Pretty little thing, she is.” The guard bearing the bowl says with a leer. Jorath looks uncomfortable.

“Pretty but as deadly as a demon.” He counters, “I’ll not risk my manhood for a few minutes with her. You seen the way she looks at you? I’ve seen corpses with more humanity.”

Hadiza shares a smile with the darkness. Ariadne is adept at looking quite frightening, with all the keen beauty of her bloodline. She gives her sister full marks for that. The other guard belches rudely.

“Yeah well, if you ever get tired of your post, I’ll take it. She’s chained, not much threat to anyone, now. Anyway, here’s the slop. How she can eat this mess is beyond me.”

Jorath grunts in assent, and takes the bowl. Hadiza waits until the guard walks away, and Jorath opens the cell door into darkness. She follows, soundless, barely a breeze to rustle his hair, and conceals herself behind the door.

“Evening meal.” He mutters, setting the bowl down tentatively in the center of the cell. Ariadne is still, sitting on the meager stone bench on the far wall, the light catching the steel of her eyes, casting her in a violent chiaroscuro of light and dark. Even Hadiza is partially frightened of her youngest sister, who looks for all the world the predatory assassin she was trained to be.

Jorath lingers a moment, and Hadiza frowns. Ariadne lowers her chin, but says nothing, and makes no move toward the bowl. Instead, Jorath sighs and leaves, shutting the door behind him. Hadiza exhales with relief.

“You’re actually terrible at this,” Ariadne says, a slight smile curling her lips.

Hadiza exhales again, dispelling the enchantment and coming into view. Ariadne turns her head to look upon her elder sister, so alike and yet so different. They are born of the same womb, and yet Hadiza is their mother’s cast, true in every shade; skin, hair, and the eyes of House Fayé, silver…the seer’s color. Ariadne feels their differences keenly, and wonders not for the first time why Hadiza extended her hand in friendship and filial piety.

She suspects it is that damnable Trevelyan sense of filial piety which drove her. Or perhaps her disdain of Bann Trevelyan has driven her this far. Ariadne watches her sister, whom the world knows as the kindest Inquisitor in living memory. But her hands are not bloodless.

“I work with what I have.” Hadiza says and her smile is quick, a cutting thing that animates her face, crinkling her eyes at the corners in mirth. Ariadne feels something stir within her, compelling her to smile back.

“So you say.” She says cooly. “And now that you are here, I take it you have some brilliant plan to free me?”

Hadiza is grinning, now.

“As a matter of fact I do.” She says brightly, “Take off your clothes.”

Ariadne’s brows go up. Hadiza blinks, and then says, “Oh. Yes. Take off your clothes.” She promptly begins to undress, doffing her cloak, revealing a bandolier of grenades and other accoutrements from Ariadne’s personal arsenal. Ariadne grins.

“What did you have in mind?” She asks, removing the itchy burlap shirt and worn trousers and taking up her armor and cloak with scarce-concealed glee. Hadiza dons the smelly prison rags with a smile.

“Well,” she says, reaching for the bandolier, “you’re going to escape and so am I.”

“How?” Ariadne asks and Hadiza shows her. Ariadne laughs quietly, gathering her lockpicks to unchain her ankles. Hadiza aids her with the chains around her wrists.

“They’ll try to kill you,” Ariadne says bluntly and Hadiza shrugs, adjusting the harness of her false arm.

“Far better men have tried, Ghost,” she says with a smile, “where are they now?”

Ariadne smiles, then, a true smile, cold and vicious and full of all the unalloyed joy of a predator on the verge of freedom.

“Well you married one of them,” she teases, “as for the rest…”

Hadiza mocks a frown but continues to gather the materials they need.

“You know how to move unseen, but your blurring powders only last for so long.” Hadiza says, reaching for Ariadne, who stiffens, then bares her teeth as Hadiza plucks a hair from her head. She holds a small crystal strung on a leather cord. With a whisper, she twines the strand of hair around the crystal.

She slips it over her neck and Ariadne sucks in a breath.

Hadiza smirks. “How do I look?”

“Unnervingly similar.” Ariadne says mildly. “I take it I am to don the same glamor?”

Hadiza takes out another crystal, plucking a strand from her own hair.

“Yes.” She says. Ariadne nods toward Hadiza’s false arm, a marvel of dwarven and mad-mage ingenuity. Lyrium veins and onyx polished to a reflective gleam, the segmented fingers moving experimentally.

“And that?” Hadiza looks down, smiling.

“Can’t be duplicated. Make due by hiding your left arm with your cloak.” She says. Ariadne nods, shrugging her cloak over her left shoulder, concealing her arm. Hadiza hands her the glamor crystal, and she loops it over her head to settle beneath her armor.

“It is well done.” She says, hearing her voice, but knowing Hadiza saw a reflection of herself.

“Don’t take it off in front of anyone,” Hadiza warns, “else the glamor will no longer fool them. If you must get naked, have the sense to leave it on.”

Ariadne smirks. “And what is your plan, once we have escaped?”

Hadiza says nothing and Ariadne narrows her eyes. She dislikes being kept in the dark for such things. A key turns in the lock of the door, and Hadiza quickly goes to take Ariadne’s place on the bench. Falling into her familiar role as the Ghost, Ariadne blurs into the shadows on the opposite wall. The bowl of food remains untouched, and the guard—Jorath—enters, staring at Hadiza, who stares back through Ariadne’s eyes.

“Not hungry?” He asks. From the shadows, Hadiza sees a blurred darkness leave the cell, and then turns her attention to Jorath.

“Not for food, no.” She says, pitching her voice low and feeling queasy doing so. If she is to play Ariadne, she must do it as her sister was trained. Jorath’s face goes red as a beet and he fumbles with the bowl.

“I’ll be taking my leave, then.” He says quickly, the words tumbling over one another. Hadiza smiles at him, hoping she looks as sultry as she’s trying to be.

“What’s the rush?” She asks, “It’s just us, no? And you look so very, very… _tired_.”

Jorath swallows visibly, and Hadiza decides to trail her fingertips along the length of her throat. There is no way to look seductive in prison rags, but flesh is flesh, and she prays Jorath is as weak and craven as his companion.

He is not.

“I’ll not be caught with my pants down only for you to kill me!” He says, “Andraste curse your kind!”

Hadiza sighs and moves quickly. Jorath is slow, too slow to react, but he is a trained warrior, and armored where she is not. He catches her glamor-spelled false arm, eyes widening at the feel of hard materials and not warm flesh. She opens her fingers and freezes his tongue with winter’s grasp. As he claws at his face, unable to make a sound, Hadiza loops her arms around his neck and drags him behind the door.

_Alright. Count. Just like he said._ She thinks. It is an eternity of his thrashing about until he goes still. Hadiza lets him down gently. When she leaves the cell she prays she hasn’t killed him, and takes off at a jog, grimacing as she steps in something wet and unclean, seeping through the rags around her feet and between her toes.

She has not planned for the contingent of guards at the entrance to the dungeon, and as she skids to a halt, she quickly ducks into an alcove, catching her breath.

“What’s taking Jorath so long with that bowl?” One of them asks, “Hope he’s not trying to get his little cock wet with that dangerous filly.”

“Why not? She’s as good as dead anyway. Might as well let the lad have his fun. No telling when a pretty face like that will come through here again.”

Hadiza gags to herself. Jorath may be her enemy tonight, but she has tested his integrity and found it in good standing. His comrades deserve what she is about to do to them.

“Go check on him. Make sure he’s not gotten too carried away.” One of them says. Hadiza waits, half-crouched in the alcove, thankful for Samson’s merciless training of endurance. Her muscles burn from the effort, but she has a great deal more energy left in her, and strength.

The guard passes the ingress and does not even see Hadiza coming. The stone fist takes him in the helm, sending him toppling over out cold. Hadiza stands fully.

“Oy!” There are four of them. Had she her glaive she could handle them all, but she has only her mana, and her wits. And so Hadiza opens her hands and smiles.

The outer door to the dungeons splinters outward in a plume of flames and smoke and cries from the guards as they strip from their heated armor. Hadiza takes no weapons, and runs, skidding and slipping up the damp stone steps and out into the city’s back alley streets. She has perhaps five minutes before they sound the alarm, and she knows what must be done in that time.

The bells begin tolling after two minutes, and Hadiza runs through the crowded streets, sprinting for the gates. She knows her chances of survival are slim, but it will be some time before the portcullis can be lowered, trapping her inside. As the bell tolls across the city, she feels a lull in the crowd, like an indrawn breath. She knows she stands out, wearing only prison rags and her glamor charm. But it is enough to warn the city guard.

They begin to converge.

Hadiza throws up a shield around herself, a subtle shimmer in the dying sunlight, and begins to run full tilt for the front gate, shoving aside confused passerby, leaping over small hurdles, and grimacing as she splashes in the murkiest puddles she has ever seen. She hears the sound of a crank going, sees the portcullis being lowered.

_Shit shit shit_. She thinks fiercely, skidding to a halt as a line of guards blocks her path. There are more coming her way, brandishing halberds. On the battlements, archers have crossbows trained on her.

Hadiza stands up straight, and the rune of lighting forms in her mind, as clear as day.

She casts, offering up an apology to the Maker. The line of guards before her are set to dancing in the storm she unleashes, lightning traveling from one to the other in a chain of anguish. Hadiza can’t help but smile in triumph, hearing the _twang_ of a dozen crossbows being loosed. They glance off her shields easily as she continues her run, clearing the portcullis as it lowers.

She keeps going too, keeps running until the walls of Starkhaven begin to fall behind her and the shouts of the guards are small. Confident that her plan has worked, she veers off the path toward the forest line where she has bid Ariadne to wait for her. There are fresh horses, and from there Hadiza can enact the next phase of her plan.

When she clears the treeline, and stumbles into the forest, she is met with a company of cloaked individuals, and Ariadne on her knees before them, a heavy and ornate blade lowered to her throat.

“Surrender now, or the bitch dies.” Says the executioner. Hadiza sees Ariadne as herself, and another cloaked figure brandishes the snapped cord of the glamor charm.

“Clever,” the figure says, voice of indeterminate gender, “hiding her behind the face of the Inquisitor. But fruitless in the end.”

Hadiza blinks.

“Then you know who I am.” She says, “And what I’m capable of.” A warning.

The cloaked figure is still gazing at the glamor crystal from behind their mask. It swings to and fro like a pendulum.

“Yes,” they say, “someone who likes to meddle in affairs where they are not wanted nor invited.”

Ariadne’s face is a portrait of indignant anger. Hadiza frowns with her sister’s face.

“And very powerful, invited or no,” she says, “let her go and I won’t have to demonstrate.”

She is met with laughter from the entire coterie of cloaked figures.

“Oh by all means,” the cloaked figure says, “demonstrate. I am eager to see the strength of the Inquisitor, whose only strength has been sundered from them.”

Hadiza winces inwardly at the jab, clenching her false hand into a fist.

“What do you want with her?” Hadiza asks. The cloaked figure pockets the glamor crystal in a smooth gesture.

“Ah, to business, then? No more witty rejoinders? No more idle threats? I’m disappointed.”

Hadiza takes a step forward, and as she does, the executioner’s blade presses a little more onto Ariadne’s throat. A thin trickle of blood follows. Hadiza does not retreat but nor does she advance.

“There are a great deal of people who would pay for the identity of the Ghost, and a great deal more who would likely pay to see her head paraded in the streets,” the cloaked figure says conversationally, “but we have other plans for this one.”

“Such as?” Hadiza asks, irritable but cautious. The cloaked figure indicates Ariadne with a flourish of their gloved hand.

“She is useful, a skilled assassin and infiltrator, and we are always looking for new and varied talent.” The cloaked leader’s head tilts almost quizzically, “Although her audition could have gone better.”

Ariadne frowns, eyes darting to the leader. Hadiza frowns too, although more in confusion.

“Audition? For…” She makes the connection, laughs to herself. “The assassin guild. I had thought it mere speculation.”

“Even so. We have been watching the Ghost for some time and thought to test her mettle…and her resources. Who knew the Inquisitor herself would come running to the rescue?”

Hadiza pinches the bridge of her nose.

“So you set her up to what? See how she could get out of the city?”

She is met with collective silence. Hadiza lets out a curse that would make even Samson startle, hurling it toward the sky.

“Why couldn’t you contract her like a normal client? Why all of this?”

Ariadne clears her throat. Hadiza turns her gaze on her sister.

“Wait.” She says, “They _did_. Ari what in Andraste’s flaming sword did that hire you to do?”

Ariadne glances at the cloaked leader, and in an almost imperceptible gesture of permission, they nod.

“I was contracted to protect the Marquis,” Ariadne explains, “to do so I needed to be close to him without tipping off the other assassin. Aja’s participation in the Tourney was fortuitous, but our seating had to be strategic. For that, I needed Josephine’s connections.”

Hadiza thinks to the past few days at the Tourney, of Ariadne’s pensive silence, and of the Marquise Duval’s proximity.

“He was not supposed to be killed,” Ariadne continues, “just threatened and I was to thwart the attempt on his life which was all supposed to be play. But it seems I was lied to. I allowed myself to be caught to alter the stakes of the test.”

“And the other assassin?” Hadiza asks, heat in her voice, “Someone has to answer for this crime.”

“It’s being dealt with.” Ariadne says, her voice hard, her eyes harder. Hadiza blinks.

“Alright.” She says, not wanting to know the how of it. She is afraid she already knows.

“So that’s it, then?” Hadiza asks, “You just take Ariadne and go?”

“Of course not.” The cloaked leader. “She failed her audition, and we can’t very well have the Inquisitor on our heels, can we?”

Hadiza tenses. “I’ll end all of you,” she warns, “if you so much as twitch I will suck the life from all of you.”

“The least you could do is buy me a drink, first.” The cloaked leader says with a laugh. “In any case, it is not advisable to murder the Inquisitor. And Ariadne’s clever manipulation did work in her favor. In this, we may now dispense with this unpleasantness and commence with the initiation.” She makes an impatient gesture with her hand. The blade at Ariadne’s throat is taken away, and she is hauled to her feet.

“Ariadne Trevelyan,” the cloaked leader says, “welcome to the Unseen.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clever girl.

Ariadne blinks in the dying sunlight filtering through the trees. She does not think she has heard properly.

The cloaked leader steps forward, offering a hand to clasp in supposed friendship.

“You’re one of us, kid.” The Executioner laughs, “Least you could do is look a little smug.”

Ariadne narrows her eyes, then tentatively clasps the cloaked leader’s arm, firm but still wary. Behind the mask, the cloak leader sighs.

“Of course, now we have to tie up loose ends.” The leader jerks their chin to Hadiza. “Kill her.”

“What?!” Hadiza cries, “You just said--”

“I know what I said,” the leader replies laconically, “but I also know your reputation, Hadiza Trevelyan. You’ll tell the Prince and that bloodhound that calls himself an archer will never stop until he’s found us. Of course, we have safeguards against discovery, but just to be sure.”

Ariadne’s face is unreadable, a perfect blank canvas as she turns toward Hadiza. Her sister stares back with Ariadne’s own face, wide eyed and frightened. Her hands come up, a gesture of surrender.

“You won’t get away with this.” Hadiza says softly, “You think you can get away with killing me? The fucking _Inquisitor_?”

There is no laughter this time, mocking or otherwise; there is only the twang of a crossbow bolt and Hadiza releases a choked gasp, hands grasping at the shaft protruding from her chest. Crimson begins to spread along the ragged shirt, outward. Her mouth moves in abject horror, and she falls to her knees and sags to the ground.

Ariadne replaces her crossbow, staring remorselessly down at her sister’s lifeless body. She kneels, pressing two fingers to the dead woman’s throat. Glancing over her shoulder, she nods.

“Leave her here for the ravens,” the cloaked leader says, “and send word to Esme in the Bent Bow. Her work is completed.” They turn to Ariadne, head tilted. “You’re going to be a wanted woman in Starkhaven for a while until we can reach our agent. In the meanwhile, congratulations. Let’s be off.”

Ariadne turned and left, sparing no backward glance to her dead sister. And like the last dregs of a weak rumor, the Unseen vanish with the setting sun, leaving only death in their wake.

* * *

 

They’re worried. It’s in the air. Aja paces, agitated, struggling not to take hold of something and shatter it with her fists. Josephine’s graceful brow is creased in a frown. Both Ariadne and Hadiza are missing and the Prince of Starkhaven is _furious_. The conflagration that saw the dungeon torched was blamed on a few hurled torches, but the surviving guards swear that the escaped prisoner was a mage, casting with their bare hands.

Sebastian, in his fury, consolidates former templars within his guard forces to search the surrounding area. He does not halt the Grand Tourney, as they thought he might, but there is a considerable shadow hanging over the events as the Prince’s frustration grows and Orlais’ gentry demands answers.

 Samson knows something is wrong, but can’t put his finger on it. The escape clearly worked, and no one reported a dead woman. Hadiza and Ariadne made it out of Starkhaven safely, then.

“They’ll send word.” Josephine says, trying to inspire hope in the rest of them. “Hadiza told us to trust her judgement in this. We can only wait until she sends orders for the next move.”

Samson grumbled, rolling his eyes. He knows Hadiza. She will always tell her people to wait and fling herself in the line of fire. Like as not, no one else save Aja knows of this quality. Still, he knows they have no choice. The escape is only one part of the plan. The other is pure madness and he’ll describe it as nothing else, even if it works.

They wait, hours go by, the evening prayers are rung in the Chantry, calling the faithful. Josephine sighs, and Rylen, pensive and unwell, picks over the remaining content of their evening meal.

They doze off a few times, until a scratching at the tent and an authoritative voice rouses them. Josephine is on her feet in an instant, sweeping toward the tent flap to answer.

“Yes?” She says brightly, as if she has not been dozing from stressed exhaustion. The guard is stern beneath his helm, but clearly nervous.

“The Prince demands your presence and that of your company immediately.” Is all he says. Josephine’s eyelids flicker. It is late for a summons, but she suspects this is no ordinary summons. She looks back to see the rest already making ready to follow. As they leave the tent, Aja sucks her teeth at the guard, bearing her gold-capped canines and taking petty joy in watching him blanch.

They are led not to the palace proper, but to the dungeons, where Prince Sebastian and his retinue await them. Josephine is uneasy. In the blackened and charred remains, Sebastian stands over a table covered with a white sheet.

Samson’s hand clenches into a fist.

“This is most unorthodox, Highness.” Josephine says, offering a deep curtsy. Sebastian says nothing for a moment, and then looks up, blue eyes hard.

“What madness has the Inquisitor brought into my city?” He demands without preamble. Josephine eyes the sheet-covered table.

“I beg your pardon?” She asks lightly. Sebastian uncovers the sheet to reveal Ariadne, a crossbow quarrel protruding from her chest, looking quite dead.

Aja’s jaw sets and Samson clenches his hands into fist, heart beginning to race.

“It looks as if someone--perhaps one of your guardsmen--got lucky.” Josephine says, “Did you not plan to execute her?”

Sebastian does not smile, does not find anything within this situation about which to jest. Instead, he reaches for the corpse.

“I was.” He agrees, “Except this isn’t the culprit.” He yanks at the leather cord around the corpse’s neck, snapping the thong. The visage of Ariadne shifts like light on the ocean floor, and Hadiza’s unmoved face replaces it.

Samson makes a sound that is both broken and terrified. Aja goes still, and Josephine’s face drains of color. Rylen frowns, his jaw set. Sebastian takes in their faces, and his expression softens.

“You didn’t know,” he says, “for that I’m sorry. She aided in the assassin’s escape. But it wasn’t my men who killed her.”

Samson looks up, and Sebastian recognizes himself in the man, from so many years ago. Vengeance is writ in the contours of his bones, and a banked fury burns low in his eyes. The look he wears is one of a man who has decided that the only rectification for this egregious tragedy will be in blood. Sebastian doesn’t blame him, but he will abide no more blood spilled within his demesne.

“I see.” Josephine’s voice comes out in a tremulous whisper as she struggles to regain composure, making herself calm on behalf of the others. “Do you know who did this?”

Sebastian shakes his head. His mouth moves to speak, but a voice says, “If you don’t mind, Highness, I can tell you, but you have to promise not to scream.”

“Andraste’s flaming sword!” Rylen cries. Sebastian whirls, eyes wide, a dagger half-drawn. His men jump back, startled.

“What magecraft is this?” He demands, urging the fear out of his voice. Hadiza sits up on the table, looks around, and then down at the quarrel in her chest.

“Oh.” She says, then reaches to grip the shaft, and eases it out. “Well, not all of it was playacting, but I guess comes the part where I explain.”

“Well someone had better!” Sebastian says. Hadiza swings her legs over the side of the table, sitting at the edge, taking in the shocked and fearful expressions of the men and women around her.

“Alright,” she says, “your assassin isn’t Ariadne, first of all. It’s a woman named Esme. She’s sitting at the Bent Bow waiting for her companions to alert her that all’s well and that she’s gotten away with murder.”

Sebastian is still staring. Hadiza laughs.

“I broke Ariadne out of prison and cast a glamor for her to look like me. Speaking of which...Highness, can I have my charm back?” Hadiza holds out her hand, and Sebastian wordlessly passes the charm to her. With her false hand, she crushes the crystal to dust.

“In any case,” she continues, “I’d advise discreetly sending men to the Bent Bow to arrest Esme.”

Sebastian takes a breath, ready to give the order.

“Or!” Hadiza interrupts with a grin, “You can have her followed and I can show you where their whole group is likely camped out thanks to Ariadne.”

“The assassin.” Sebastian breathes. Hadiza shrugs.

“Only sometimes, Highness.” She fixes him with a grave stare, “So what will you? Arrest the assassin responsible? Or burn their whole cell to the ground and catch even more?”

Sebastian considers a moment. Hadiza raises her brows.

“We are pressed for time, Highness.” She warns. Sebastian frowns in frustration.

“Do you swear to me, on all that you hold dear, that you are not playing me false in any way?” He asks firmly. Hadiza’s smile fades.

“May the Maker strip me of my magic if I lie, Highness. Now, what will you?”

Sebastian takes a deep breath.

“Corinth,” he says, “have a contingent shadow any suspicious characters leaving the Bent Bow and heading for any of the gates out of the City.” Corinth salutes, taking his guards with him. Sebastian turns to look at the former Inquisition and sighs.

“You’re telling the truth, aren’t you?” He asks. Hadiza nods.

“I am sorry that it had to happen in this way, but you were being so damned stubborn. I take it you’ll want to bear witness to the conclusion of this?”

Sebastian gives her a firm nod. Hadiza slides off the table, grimacing as her bare feet touch the blackened stone.

“First, I’ll need to change. And then I’ll lead you to the prize.” 

Hadiza leaves the dungeon, and Samson follows her first, with Josephine and Aja in tow, burning with questions from the madness they’ve just witnessed.

“I can see why the world followed her,” Sebastian says to Rylen, “she’s damned clever...if a bit reckless. How was she so sure her plan would lead her here?”

Rylen shrugs. “You’ll have to ask her. I will say that this is the most interesting Tourney I’ve been to in all my years, Highness.”

Sebastian laughs. “It is at that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I marveled at my own cleverness but whatever. Comments are appreciated.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good hunting.

“That was damn foolish gamble you took, Hadiza!” Samson shouts in their shared tent. Hadiza seems unbothered by his anger, rubbing a salve into the chafed scar where her left arm ends.

“Love, had I told you the full of my plan would you have let me do it?” She asks. Samson’s face is contorted in fury.

“Of course not! You could have been killed! And you didn’t even take one of us with you!” He paces, and Hadiza can feel the heat of his anger, unchecked and with no target. She knows from his rigid posture that she has wounded him. Sighing, she turns to face him, half-dressed.

"Raleigh," his name only, but it is enough to bring him to stillness, fixing his attention on her, hooded eyes sharp and focused. "I'm sorry. Truly. When Ariadne laid her suspicions out to me that night, I...I knew we had to make it convincing. I wasn't sure if I could make it that far but I did. And I had to hurt a lot of people to do it. Can you credit me with some semblance of competency, at least?"

Samson draws back, visibly nonplussed, eyes wide.

"I wasn't implying that you didn't know what you were about," he says, "just that...damnit, princess. You know you're reckless most of the time. And I know you did it to protect us more than anything."

Hadiza purses her lips. "Yes." She says crossly, "But had I brought in all of you to aid in this endeavor, the Unseen would not have revealed themselves, and we'd have no proof of Ariadne's...innocence."

Samson nodded, understanding, but not liking it any more than that.

"Can you forgive me?" She asks. Samson runs his fingers through his thinning hair, sighing with a shudder.

"I'm going to have to, princess." He says with a self-deprecating smile. "But you've got to promise to trust me next time you have to do something like this."

"And risk you trying to play the hero and rescuing me?" Hadiza laughs. Samson frowns but she waves her hand. "Don't look at me like that. I know you. You play at being the gruff mercenary, but underneath all of that you're just dying to be my knight in shining armor."

Samson smiles. "Ah, well. When the lady is as lovely as the morning star..."

Hadiza flushes beneath her dark skin. "Don't." She warns. Samson closes the distance between them.

"With hair that looks like a river of night."

"You're such a bad poet, Raleigh."

"Humor me, princess."

Hadiza tosses her false arm at him instead. He catches it deftly, mindful of the straps and shoulder guard.

"Later, mayhap. Help me armor up."

* * *

 

Josephine watches Aja sharpen her battle axe with a grim expression.

"You'll lose your place in the Tourney for this." She says softly. Aja does not stop, and checks the keenness of her axe's blade with her thumb. A bead of blood wells up from the resulting wound, making Josephine wince. Aja sucks her thumb clean, unbothered.

"There will be other Tourneys, lovely." She says, hefting the axe onto her back. "But this is an opportunity to destroy my sister's enemies. How can the Grand Tourney hope to compete with that?"

Josephine sweeps toward Aja, a picture of refined loveliness. Aja's armor is heavy, and Josephine longs to feel the warm of her strong body through it, but she feels only cold metal, wrought in an intimidating form. Mindful of the spikes and edges, she reaches up to take Aja's face in her hands.

"I've contacted a few of my connects. The Unseen are...formidable. A guild based in Nevarra. Like the Crows, they are as dangerous as you think they are. But unlike the Crows, no one will attest to their existence. Even the Nevarran royals give them a wide berth, and it is no secret that they sometimes employ them to do their bidding."

Aja rubs the shaved side of her head with a groan.

"I cannot fathom this cloak and dagger mess, Josie," she says, "truly. What did the Unseen want with a minor Orlesian lordling?"

Josephine shrugs, fussing with Aja's hair, until the dreads are evenly pulled back and clasped in golden bands.

"My guess would be it was some sort of initiation process. Likely Ariadne being untethered caught their attention and they seek to increase their number. In retrospect, it makes sense. And with a guild like the Unseen, it's uncertain if this is an honor or a death sentence."

Aja tilts her head, smiling down at Josephine.

"Well, it's like to be the latter once they find out Ariadne's betrayed them to Sebastian. The man is **furious**." She seems amused by this entire prospect, and Josephine frowns.

"Don't jest." She admonishes, but there is nothing save affection in her voice. She traces the trawling scar across Aja's face, her fingertips soft and cool. "Have a care with them, will you? You owe me for not winning the Tourney this year. And I bestowed you with my favor. _For luck_."

Aja sighs, rolling her eyes.

"I will be sure to return and do lengthy, _lengthy_ penance for the transgression, Lady Montilyet. You have but to ask." She leans down as Josephine stands up on her toes, and their lips meet, as soft as a morning exhale. Aja lingers a moment, smiling against her mouth, shaping the words that Josephine might breathe them in.

Josephine's cheeks flush and she kisses Aja again and again, holding her face in her hands, a precious thing.

"I have to go." Aja whispers, "I promise to be as careful as my nature allows. Will that suffice?"

Josephine considers a moment, pressing one last kiss to the corner of Aja's mouth.

"For the moment. But remember your promise to me." Her smile turns wicked momentarily and Aja returns it with one of her own feral grins.

"Oh I'm not like to forget. I can be very contrite, as you well know."

She leaves Josephine blushing and shivering, her laughter loud and echoing as she joins her companions and the Prince's company.

* * *

 

Rylen is reticent, and he knows it is not in his nature to be thus. He knows it is Ariadne’s influence that bottles his words, only to be released when he is in relaxed company. But Ariadne is not here. He doesn’t know her mind as well as he ought to, and he knows he never will. He has always accepted this about her, has always known there will be parts of her he will never be privy to no matter how hard he tries.

And yet, her secrecy feels like a betrayal just the same. Did she keep this from him to protect him or because she did not think he deserved to know?

The Unseen! A ghost story out of Nevarra. An intangible group of assassins and mercenaries whose reputation was both well known and unknown in the same turn. No one could credit their work, and yet there remained an unspoken signature in the bloody jobs done in the West. Rylen knew that much through gossip and rumor.

Ariadne’s report through Hadiza’s ‘death’ merely confirmed their existence.

“Rylen.” Hadiza’s voice is a soft breath, rife with concern. “Are you sure you’re up for this?” Rylen turns to her, scratching at his stubble idly.

“It was bound to come to this eventually, my lady,” he says cryptically, “I knew what she was from the moment we met, and I ignored all the warning signs. I just hope she’s not playing us for fools and leading us into a trap.”

Hadiza shrugs. “I won’t claim to know her any more than you, Rylen. She could have killed me, and she didn’t. She stuck to the plan rather than accept her place amongst the Unseen’s ranks. Will you not credit her with that much?”

“You’re her sister.” Rylen argues.

“And she’s besotted with you. Betimes that means a great deal more than any blood-kin relationship.” Hadiza counters. Rylen holds her gaze for a moment, sees the steadiness in it. There is no malice, no hidden motive. Hadiza has always been honest in her dealings with her companions, even in this latest venture of recklessness.

“Hard to credit that, with how she is.” Rylen mutters, “But it would be unfair to say she’s completely untrustworthy. After all, she’s had plenty opportunities to kill me as well.”

Hadiza smiles, and he knows she’s thinking of the absurdity of the situation, that a token of affection from Ariadne means one gets to keep their life.

“I don’t think,” she says, “that Ariadne kills indiscriminately. She has never taken a life that one did not pay her to take. Save once.”

“Six times.” Rylen corrects, “There were six of them. All of them had it coming.”

Hadiza nods, remembering. She’d been there when Ariadne closed that bloody chapter of her life. It is not a grisly thing one soon forgets.

“So,” Hadiza says, “are you sure you want to do this? It could get ugly...and messy.”

Rylen frowns. “Don’t insult me, my lady. Ariadne is what she is, and I won’t fault her for that. But...”

Hadiza smiles knowingly.

“I understand.” She says, “You ready to move out?”

Rylen fixes her with a resolute stare.

“At once.”

* * *

 

Sebastian is mounted on a white charger at the head of a company of foot soldiers and archers clad in the colors of Starkhaven. Next to them, Hadiza and her companions look like hired mercenaries. She smiles a little to herself at the thought. Well, what else are they if not that?

“This is your hunting party, Inquisitor.” Sebastian says, sitting steady atop his mount, which barely twitches an ear out of line. Hadiza thinks Cullen would kill to have such discipline from his own cavalry were the Inquisition still around.

“Yes,” she says brightly, “shall we, Highness?”

Sebastian inclines his head, and Hadiza leads her dracolisk ahead of the charge. She knows Ariadne has precious little time to prepare for their arrival, knows that the Unseen would not be foolish enough to leave their trail unwatched. When they come upon the first sign, they almost miss it for its subtlety. Hadiza spots it only because Ariadne has told her what to look for.

A coin, bearing the stamp of Nevarra on its back, and in profile, the patriarch of the First of the Royal Family. It winks in the sun from the nook of an old tree. Hadiza reaches into it, finds the coin, and a pouch bearing blurring powder. She does not like to think of what it cost Ariadne to part with such an essential piece of her arsenal. Still, it is enough. She turns their party northeast, toward Nevarra.

“They won’t have taken the main roads,” Sebastian says later when they make camp. Hadiza raises a brow.

“Won’t they? It is easy enough to assume a coterie of assassins would prefer to flee through the untamed wilds of the Marches, but this group is confident that I am dead by my own sister’s hand, and that even now, their comrade races to join them.”

She steals a glance beyond the firelight, toward the endless road they have ahead of them.

“She is barely ahead of us.” Sebastian says, “My outriders will catch up to her easily.”

“They will be slain before they even have the chance to mount a proper attack,” Samson counters, “and we’ve already lost enough time as is.”

“Then what do you wish of me, Ser Samson?” Sebastian is careful in his tone, but does not hesitate to limn Samson’s name with echoes of contempt. Samson bears it with ease; all the world who knows his story hurls its fury at him...he will abide.

“Do you want my honest opinion?” Samson asks. Sebastian holds his gaze, steady and clear.

“I’d ask for nothing else.”

Samson’s jaw is set. “Leave off this chase. Go home to your people, and be glad it was only an initiation and not true blood work.”

Hadiza sputters in disbelief.

“Samson! You can’t be serious! A man is dead because of their initiation. The Prince can’t let this go unanswered.”

“Nor will he.” Sebastian says, never breaking Samson’s gaze. “I will see justice done, even if you think your own methods will yield better results.”

Hadiza doesn’t miss the jibe, and Samson wishes he hadn’t opened his fool mouth. She blinks rapidly, and he can see her struggling to maintain her composure.

“No one is demanding you shirk justice and run, Highness.” She says quietly, “But this is a guild that has become such legend that even the well-connected disavow knowledge of their existence. If they have expanded their reach this far...there is no telling who is among their number.”

Sebastian frowns. “Then we root them out by any means necessary.”

Hadiza sighs, wishing for once the title of Inquisitor were that and not just an honorific she carries with her.

“And how will you do that, my Prince?” She asks quietly, “Put every man, woman, and child of Starkhaven to torture until they confess? Contract blood mages to pry the secrets from their minds? Put anyone you deign suspicious to the sword? They are not called the Unseen without reason.”

Sebastian relaxes, passing his hand over his face.

“What would you do, Inquisitor? As I hear it you had trouble with spies in your own organization.”

Hadiza nods. “I did, but those circumstances were of my own doing. I knew they were snakes when I picked them up. I cannot be angry when they bite me for becoming complacent.” She and Samson share a brief glance, remembering.

“Still,” she continues, “I would have you at least find this small band. They were masked, but my sister is among them, and I know she would leave some sign to root them out. And there is the still the matter of our lone fugitive.”

Sebastian tilts his head. “You and yours mean to go after her.” He says, and Hadiza smiles, “You could be killed.”

“Aye,” Samson says gruffly, “But better us than your men dying senselessly and needlessly before they can even strike a blow on the wily bitch.” At Hadiza’s sharp look he grins, “Begging your pardon, Highness.”

Sebastian ignores the foul language, focusing only on the stratagem that lays before him.

“I could send a contingent of this force with you. Give you all a fighting chance, at least.” He says, “But it would mean you must leave tonight to catch up to her. I dislike this. It puts you at a disadvantage.”

Hadiza shrugs. “I’m a mage. If light is not to be had, then I shall create it.”

Sebastian glances down, unbidden, at the false arm at her side. It is elegantly crafted, a marvel of delicate but unusual strength. The color of black marble, veined with the vivid blue of lyrium. In its palm, a reservoir lyrium crystal acting both as focus and mana booster. The fingers are segmented, and Hadiza flexes them and wiggles them periodically, an exercise to maintain her connection to the arm.

“Highness.” She says mildly and he looks up to meet her eyes. She is not offended, but he can see the flicker of something in her eyes. Anger, mayhap; shame, possibly.

“My apologies,” he says, “I didn’t mean to stare. It’s fascinating craftsmanship. I’ve never seen its like.”

“Nor are you like to.” Hadiza says, her expression unreadable, “Are we in accord, then?”

Sebastian takes a moment to resettle his thoughts.

“Aye,” he says, “gather your people, Inquisitor. And good hunting.”


	10. Chapter 10

****The moons are obscured by cloud cover when Hadiza and her team make their way into the night’s depth. There is no light save what pitiable starlight they can get on the path, and she can almost feel Esme’s flight grow frantic, knowing the assassin can hear the hunt closing on her heels. But Esme is of the Unseen--or soon will be if she returns to her protectorates--and not without reason.

The trap closes around them in silence.

It is Aja who hears the subtle shift in noise, the almost soundless twang of a crossbow. She puts up one vambraced arm, the quarrel glancing off of it in a subtle spray of sparks.

“We’ve been spotted.” She says with scarce-concealed glee.

At once, Hadiza casts, and the forest is filled the soft blue light of her shield, which flickers with each blow struck against it.

Esme is not without her own tricks, and Hadiza feels it, the sudden onset of fatigue as her mana is siphoned and drained away. She collapses nearly to one knee with a shocked gasp. Samson barely has time to come beside her, and shield them both from the spray of arrows, one of which glance off of Hadiza’s false arm and nick the exposed padding of his gambeson.

“Hadiza,” Samson whispers, “we can’t fight an enemy like this in the dark. We have to retreat.”

Hadiza frowns, her false arm limp at her side. “No.” She says fiercely. She does not elaborate, and as much as he wants to, Samson does not countermand her orders. He distrusted her once, and was wrong for it. He’ll not do so again.

Rylen and Samson form shields as the spray of arrows ceases. Hadiza breathes deep, feels the well of her mana slowly beginning to replenish, and signals her squad to hold.

She listens, hearing Old Ricardo’s voice in her head, mocking her for not using her damned ears. She listens, as she’s been taught, trying to think as she hears the subtle shift in the dirt.

A sound in the darkness, a bowstring being pulled taut.

 “Samson!” She hisses, reaching to shift his shield upward, in time for an arrow to bounce off of it.

The clouds pass over the moons, and their light is almost of the sun from the sudden visibility.

With her cover of darkness dispelled, Esme is revealed to them, crouched low on a thick tree branch, swathed in a black so pitch she appears as little more than a living shadow.

_Twang!_

This time, Hadiza catches the arrow in her false hand, snapping its shaft in two.

Esme attempts to retreat, and lets out a muffled cry from behind her mask as Aja’s grappling chain wraps around her waist, snatching her back toward the Reaver. Aja winds up, and the resulting collision is audible as Aja’s fist cracks into Esme’s face, the mask shattering beneath the gauntlet. Esme is dazed as she collapses to her knees in pain, the shards of her mask cutting her now-revealed face, blood pouring from the wounds.

A pair of midnight blue eyes glare up at them as the heavy and finely-honed edge of Samson’s sword is placed on her throat.

“You’ve caused enough trouble for a lifetime.” He says nastily, “Give me a reason.”

Esme tosses her head defiantly, black hair escaping from her cowl. Her cheeks are flushed pink from the exertion.

“That was damn clever, draining my mana like that.” Hadiza says, the segmented fingers of her hand moving stiffly and erratically as she regains her strength. “But now our game is ended.”

Esme does not speak at first, even as Samson’s blade remains steady beneath her chin. Hadiza tilts her head, motioning to Rylen. He shifts to guard her back. From the flicker in Esme’s eyes, Hadiza knows she has checkmate.

“What will you?” Esme asks, “If you kill me you’ll never find them.”

Hadiza says nothing, but she maintains that wan smile. Esme shifts her weight to her heels, feels Samson’s blade follow to maintain an easy contact with her white throat.

“I would have nothing from you, Esme,” Hadiza says gently, “save to remand you to the custody of His Highness Sebastian Vael of Starkhaven. Though I suspect your internment will be a short one at this point.”

Esme tilts her head.

“I killed but one man,” she says, “I am not the architect of the chaos that followed. ‘Twas not I who destroyed the dungeon to free the Ghost.”

Rylen stirs at the mention of her, but maintains his vigil at Hadiza’s back.

“True.” Hadiza accedes, “But we’d not be here if you were not so eager to prove your worth to the Unseen with such a paltry initiation.”

Esme’s full lips, as pink as rose petals, purse in silent indignation. Hadiza moves her segmented fingers again, and this time it is more fluid. Her mana has nearly returned to full strength and sweat beads on Esme’s temple.

“Where are they?” Hadiza asks, and Samson stirs at the wintery tone of her voice. He knows now they have crossed into territory Hadiza hates, but Maker bless her resolve, she plays the cold-hearted Inquisitor with consummate skill. 

Esme chuckles. “Torture does not become you, Inquisitor.”

The assassin cannot help but flinch inwardly as an arc of lightning flashes between Hadiza’s false fingers.

“Ah, well,” Hadiza says with an almost self-deprecating smile, “true and untrue, Esme. Torture will avail me no pleasure. But if you do not tell me where the Unseen are taking my associate...you may lose something here tonight. And I assure you: you’ll miss it.”

Aja grins despite it all. The sheer bloodthirsty nature of the threat excites the beast in her blood. Esme’s throat works in a bob as she swallows.

“Do what you will, Inquisitor.” Esme says. Hadiza shares a glance with Samson, a brief moment of familiarity, and Samson laughs.

“She always does.” He says casually, taking a firm grip on Esme’s head and holding her still.

Hadiza opens her hand, producing a sphere of light. It floats, harmless and serene toward Esme, and on her next inhale, instantly dissolves, siphoned through her nostrils. She notes the sad look in Hadiza’s eyes briefly, but on her next blink sees only the stern mask of the Inquisitor looking down at her.

“I will ask you once more,” Hadiza says, “where are they?”

Esme does not answer, but she feels the light in her throat, feels as if there’s an itch there. She resists the urge to reach for her throat to massage it.

“If I told you, they’d kill me.” Esme says simply.

“If you do not tell me, you will die anyway,” Hadiza replies, “I merely offer you the choice to die quickly or die slowly and no doubt painfully at the hands of your would-be compatriots.” 

Esme laughs, but it comes out a sputtering cough. Droplets of bloody phlegm hit the flat of Samson’s blade, sizzling as the runes activate. Her lips are stained as red as crushed cherries, and she licks them, tasting the metallic flavor of her own blood spreading on her tongue. She knows now what Hadiza has done.

“When they learn of her betrayal,” Esme says, “there will barely be anything left for you to find.”

Hadiza’s gaze is steady, steel matched against the shifting midnight of Esme’s own eyes. Samson waits, and Aja’s smile wanes.

“Are they truly worth dying for?” Hadiza asks quietly. Esme lifts her chin in defiance.

“Whatever you plan to do, Inquisitor, have done with it. It is but child’s play compared to what the Unseen are capable of.”

Hadiza sighs, shutting her eyes momentarily. Esme watches her, cold and defiant, even as she feels the potential energy of foreign magic in her blood. Hadiza's eyes open, paler than the moons that hang like enormous pearls in the sky.

"Let her run back to her masters and tell them everything," she says cooly, "we will follow and crush them come the dawn."

Esme and Hadiza lock gazes and Samson stares at Hadiza, dumbfounded. 

"Wait," Aja says, "that's it? You're just going to let her go? After all the trouble she's caused?"

Sebastian rides up, accompanied by the hoofbeats of his men. Hadiza suspects he struck camp when he heard the commotion in the distance. She does not break Esme's midnight gaze.

"We'll escort her." Hadiza says. Esme frowns briefly, but says nothing, tossing her head again, only to find Samson's gauntleted grip firm in her hair.

* * *

Esme leads them to a small, dilapidated inn, and Hadiza and Sebastian laugh. Had they come thundering through attempting to find Esme, they would have missed this easily concealed structure. Samson shakes his head. The Unseen are brilliant, he'll give them that.

"This is it?" Aja asks, fastidious to a fault, "For such a badass organization, you'd think they'd invest in a more defensible hideout."

Esme laughs.

"Oh it is more than defensible," she says, "and when the dust settles, I'll be sure to mount your head and tell you so." 

Aja bares her teeth at the girl, who gives her a simpering smile in turn.

"Cut the chatter." Hadiza says shortly. "Esme you are sure this is where they told you to meet them?"

Esme shrugs. "They do not take initiates to Nevarra until we are blooded. Most do not ever see the headquarters in Nevarra until they have spent a year in service to the Unseen."

Sebastian frowns, shifting in the saddle.

"I find it farfetched that you would be giving up so many secrets so close to freedom." He says and Esme glances at him sidelong.

"Not all of us will live to see the end of this day, Highness," she says sweetly, "what difference does it make what secrets I divulge?"

Samson chuckles but says nothing. Hadiza dismounts, and shoves Esme toward the inn nestled amidst the heavy wooded forest. She stumbles, but walks with pride, unchained and unarmed. Hadiza holds up her hand to halt the party at her back.

Esme waits at the door, reaches forward, scratches somewhat. The door opens briefly and she says something to whomever answers. Hadiza watches, eyes narrowed. By now, Sebastian's men are in position, and it is only a matter of—

The hiss of an arrow is their only warning, and she sees a blur of white and gold at her back as Sebastian dismounts with consummate grace, vanishing as he lands. The Unseen bubble out of the inn, masked and armed. Hadiza does not look for Ariadne among their number, but she sees the leader, whose mask is no different from their comrades, and yet...she would know the leadr anywhere.

Crossbows and bows alike are leveled from both sides and Hadiza, Samson, Aja, and Rylen are surrounded. She does not look for Sebastian either.

"Well, well," the leader says, "the Inquisitor lives."

Hadiza holds up her hands, smiling.

"You don't sound surprised." She says, "I take it you've dealt with my duplicitous associate?"

"As you've dealt with ours." The leader responds and Esme startles at her side, the only one amongst her brethren unmasked. Hadiza lowers her hands.

"In a moment." She says, making a casual gesture. Almost immediately, Esme begins to cough, blood as black as bile in her sputum, and Aja, Rylen, and Samson bring up their shields, protecting Hadiza and themselves on all sides. They crouch as one as Hadiza throws up her own shield over the party.

Esme bursts open from within to without in a messy and fiery shower of blood, gore, gristle, and bone. Hadiza hears some of the Unseen cry out in startled delight, as the mess rains from the sky, bits of it on fire. When it is done, Hadiza and her party rise, untainted by the mess. Only Esme's boots are left, scorched and bloody.

"Justice is served." The leader says, amused. "You certainly have a penchant for theatrics, Inquisitor. Perhaps you should take up performing on the stage."

Hadiza shrugs. "Give me the Ghost." She says. The leader does not move. Hadiza sighs, gestures again.

Arrows rain from the sky as Samson, Aja, and Rylen kneel again, shielding themselves and one another. The Unseen, unprepared for the onslaught, begin to fall. Those who do not have shields--arcane or otherwise--drop dead, pierced in the bowels, heart, or head. Some clutch their pierced body parts--legs, arms, throat--letting out anguished and choked cries.

The rain of arrows continues, killing the wounded. Hadiza sees through the shield wall that the leader is escaping.

"Forward!" Hadiza orders, and as one, she and her team move, a wall of steel and silverite, woven with the arcane. Arrows glance off the metal, dissolve upon contact with the shimmering shield, until they are sheltered by the inn's front overhang. They rise and break away from one another, as Hadiza charges inside.

She is met with bedlam, and the coppery scent of spilled blood.

Bodies litter the floor, some still clutching their weapons in their final death throes, others twisted and burnt from the fires of grenades. The tables and chairs are split and broken into kindling, and the floorboards are slippery with congealing blood. In the center of it all is Ariadne, kneeling on one knee, a blade in either hand, stained with dried blood. Her hair is disheveled, and her slight shoulders rise and fall as she gasps for breath. There is the broken shaft of an arrow in her thigh, and as she looks up to meet her sister's eyes, there is a moment in which it is clear she cannot tell friend from foe. Whatever poison-induced madness she is in, has not worn off.

"Ghost." Hadiza breathes and Ariadne's gaze sharpens as she rises on unsteady legs, her wounded limb quivering from the exertion. Hadiza's brow furrows in concern, only to raise in abject surprise as Ariadne whirls, bringing her blades around in a graceful arc. The man behind her barely has time to react as one blade opens his throat and the bites into his jowls, splitting his mouth wider. Ariadne does not slow or stop her fluid movement until both blades have bypassed all resistance.

The man falls to his knees, his weapon dropping from his hands as he reaches to make a futile attempt to stop the bleeding. He dies reaching for Ariadne who seems to have already forgotten him. She's making her way toward Hadiza.

"Ghost, it's me." Hadiza says, noting the other woman's pupils have expanded. The drugs coursing her system are effective, and she attacks Hadiza fluidly despite her wounded leg. Hadiza barely has time to defend herself, for once grateful that her left arm is false as she hears the grinding of Ariadne's blades against the obstinate metal. They crash through the front door as Ariadne's blades lock against the shaft of Hadiza's partisan, and Hadiza throws her weight over her head, sending them both careening outside.

Outside, the battle is all but won, but Ariadne is in the throes of something deeper than what Hadiza believes she can cure.

The leader of the Unseen, now unmasked to reveal a face thickened with burned scars, laughs in a reedy voice.

"Good luck with that one!" They call as Hadiza moves, pressed by Ariadne's relentless attack, heedless of the wound in her thigh. Samson slams the pommel of his sword into the back of their head, and the leader drops unconscious.

"Ari!" Hadiza cries, blocking with her false arm, trying to find her footing. It is perhaps the first time she has had to face her sister, and she realizes that this is a battle she cannot win. Ariadne is trained to kill in ways Hadiza cannot fathom, is trained to be as relentless on the hunt as any predator. It is why Leliana recruited her so long ago, and it is why she has succeeded Leliana as a spymaster.

Ariadne's blade finds an opening, and Hadiza feels a scoring line of fire along her shoulder as the blade bites through her clothing, leaving a gash in her left shoulder.

It is Sebastian who turns the tide.

Hadiza is forced to block each attack, while Sebastian fires three arrows. One pierces Ariadne in the hip, and she drops to one knee, turning, a flash of steel in the dying light as she tosses a dagger. Sebastian blocks it easily, but is surprised at how true her aim is. He fires another arrow in a return volley, and it takes Ariadne through the shoulder, rendering her left arm useless. She clamps her teeth around an anguished cry.

But she is stopped. Hadiza casts a glyph of paralysis beneath her sister's kneeling form as surety, and Ariadne looks up, pupils wide and dark, a ring of silver around them, and madness raging in her eyes like a storm. Sebastian makes himself visible just behind her, an arrow locked on to the back of her head.

"No!" Hadiza cries before he can release it. Sebastian looks up, eyes hard.

"No." Hadiza repeats. "It is ended. She's been drugged. Let's just...no more killing today."

Sebastian narrows his eyes at her a moment, but Hadiza's gaze is earnest and unyielding. He lowers his bow, relaxes his pull on the string.

"Very well." He turns to his men, barking orders to gather the Unseen who yet live to bring them to Starkhaven, and see to their wounded and dead. Sebastian turns to Hadiza once more, who has now been joined by her companions.

"I suppose it's true what they say about you, then." Sebastian says with a wry smile. Hadiza's brows go up in a silent question.

"Everywhere you go, trouble is sure to follow."

Hadiza grimaces but Aja grins, her armor splattered with blood, her nose caked with it.

"I'm sorry, Your Highness," Hadiza says, "it was never my intention to bring trouble but...this has naught to do with me."

Sebastian shrugs. "Doesn't it?" He gestures to Ariadne, unconscious on the ground as Rylen tends to her wounds. "Is she not your sister? Did this...Unseen guild not court her for her very particular set of skills?"

Hadiza frowns. "That's not fair. We were just as blindsided as you, Highness. And I could have taken Ariadne and left the mess of the murder for you and yours to solve, but I didn't. Were it not for me and my sister, you'd not know the Unseen were behind the chaos."

"And were it not for you, the culprit would be taken into custody, not scattered in pieces around the area." Sebastian counters, but there's no edge in his voice, only the weariness of one who wants to have done with the messy business already. Hadiza sighs.

"Fine." She says laconically, "What will you, then? You've routed one of their nests, and doubtless when the silence reaches their masters in Nevarra, they will send more."

Sebastian's eyes are hard as he straps on his bow, preparing to join his men.

"Then we will rout them as well. Tend to your sister, Inquisitor. I will take it from here." He pauses, and then adds, "And my thanks for meddling and discovering this matter."

Aja laughs. "This beats competing in the Grand Tourney, I'll say." She loops her arm around her sister's shoulders. "We should do this again sometime."

"Preferably not in Starkhaven," Sebastian says mildly, and walks away, "Rylen. Walk with me."

Rylen reluctantly leaves Ariadne's side as Hadiza kneels across from him.

"Go." She says, "I'll see to the rest." Rylen nods, and leaves with Sebastian. Hadiza begins the messy process of closing the worst of Ariadne's wounds, checking for fractures and breaks, and Samson stands by, lyrium potions on hand.

Rylen and Sebastian walk a ways from the bulk of the party.

"I know you didn't know about any of this." Sebastian says, "And I know the Inquisitor is your friend. But you have a duty in Starkhaven as well. Why did you not come to me sooner?"

Rylen sighs.

"Highness, you would have had Ariadne executed without seeking deeper evidence. I had to trust the Inquisitor in this matter."

Sebastian turns his gaze on Rylen, sharp and affronted.

"And what of the next time something like this happens? Am I to allow every criminal a chance for their loved ones to attempt to prove their innocence? While the victims of these crimes wait for justice to be done?"

Rylen pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Of course not, Highness, I meant no offense," he says, "I just...I  _know_ Ariadne. She would--begging your pardon--never sell her skills for a noble so low on the social ladder, even an Orlesian one. If you'd had her executed, the real killer would have gotten away clean."

"How well do you know her?" Sebastian asks, "From what I hear, the Unseen wanted her in their ranks, and their initiation is very...strict. What's to stop her from trying again?"

Rylen smiles. "Highness, she and the rest of us have laid waste to one of their cells. I doubt they'll extend a second invitation. If you're worried she'll do wet work in your city, you need not fear. She doesn't shit where she eats."

Sebastian raises his brows, laughing despite himself.

"I suppose that'll have to do, won't it?" He asks. Rylen shrugs.

"I suppose so, Highness." He agrees.

* * *

Ariadne awakens to dappling sunlight filtered through a grimy window. She winces against the sudden brightness, and moves stiffly, grimacing as her shoulder, hip, and thigh tighten in protest. Her vision clears as the room comes into slow and soft focus.

Rylen's home, familiar and safe.

Ariadne sits up, placing all of her weight on her right arm, careful about moving her left for fear of the sharp and tight pain returning. It is a dull ache so long as she doesn't aggravate it.

"Oh good, you're up." It's Hadiza, coming out of the washroom, looking fresh-faced and cheery. Her false arm is missing, the sleeve knotted around the stump of her left arm, and Ariadne does a cursory glance around the room, seeing no sign of the appendage. All at once, she remembers, and inwardly cringes.

"You need not worry." Hadiza says, reading her shame in her shuttered body language, "The drugs they gave you were potent, and it's been some three or four days getting them flushed out of your system. All's well, however."

Ariadne is silent, her expression unreadable.

"Esme?" She asks flatly.

"Blown to bits." Hadiza says casually. "The leader of that little cell is currently swinging from Starkhaven's gallows alongside their compatriots. Justice has been served. Aja managed to come in a close second during the Tourney after Sebastian pardoned her for her involvement."

Ariadne does not react and instead rolls her shoulders, forgetting, and then the pain reminding her that she is still in recovery.

Hadiza sits by the bed, her expression calm, serene, as if she has not engaged in a bloodbath these three days past.

"I'm sorry things got messy. It never occurred to me that you might seek employment within a guild. With the Inquisition gone, I suppose marketing your skills is singularly difficult."

Ariadne fixes her half-sister with a glare. Hadiza looks shamed for a moment.

"And your cover is blown too." She says quietly, "Looks like the Ghost has a face at last."

Ariadne makes a noise that could be a grunt or a growl, and turns away from Hadiza.

"Ari," she says, "I'm really sorry. I wish there was something I could do to make you feel more...apart of...apart of whatever it is we have wrought. But you are who you are, and I accept that. But you're also my sister, and I accept that too."

Ariadne snorts derisively.

"Do you ever get tired of it, Hadiza?" She asks. Hadiza blinks, nonplussed. Ariadne turns to face Hadiza, for once ignoring the sharp pain of her wounds.

"How long do you think you can go through this world meddling in affairs and being kind to every soul you meet? How long can you keep this act up?"

Hadiza's eyes are scoured clean of surprise, and Ariadne sees with a budding triumph, the rising tide of fury. The temperature in the room drops and Ariadne shivers despite her resistance.

"You know," Hadiza says, "I try to be kind to all that I meet because who can say whether or not that person will return the kindness to someone else one day? I am kind because this world is  _too_ unkind for me to just...fall in line, Ariadne. Are you so cynical and jades that you would turn away kindness out of fear? That you would challenge me after I have unnecessarily risked my life and reputation to save you when you seemed so ready to hang for another's crimes?"

Ariadne's mouth opens and then shuts, but her teeth are chattering and frost creeps across the grimy glass of the window despite the high summer heat outside. Hadiza's anger abates, and the chill flees the room with it.

"Ari," she says, softer this time, "I'm not you, to play roles and change masks as an actor does between scenes. I'm no seductress to tempt marks to their death with the promise of pleasures unknown. And I'm no assassin, to kill in stealth and leave no trace of my passing. I'm just me. I'm a mage...and a passable warrior. And, despite everything, I'm still the Inquisitor to most. And so I have a standard to uphold."

Ariadne makes a sound of disgust.

"It is weakness that can be used against you."

She sees something surface in Hadiza's eyes, sorrowful--a knowledge that should not be there. Hadiza tilts her head, and Ariadne looks away.

"I know." Hadiza says, "Probably more than you do. But it is a weakness I can live with if it means the people I care about remain safe."

Ariadne says nothing, keeping her gaze averted. In truth she does not know what to say. She has spent most of her life a killer, and only the past two years a sister. Even so, it is a strange thing, to have family...family that welcomes her with open arms.

There is laughter in the hall. Aja, from the sound of it, and Josephine's soft giggle. Aja begins singing a bawdy Rivaini rowing song, and Josephine's giggle turns shrill. Ariadne can tell from the sound that Aja has hoisted Josephine off the ground to carry her. Aja has not won the Tourney, but she has claimed a victory of a different kind, and it is enough for both of them. Hadiza smiles.

"Always thinking." She says. Ariadne's lips twitch involuntarily.

"As you said: I am who I am."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possibly one or two more chapters left. :3


End file.
